


The Long Haul to the End of the Line: a rondo

by di0zapeeRc



Series: The Epistemology of Love [4]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Blood, Depression, Homophobia, M/M, Painplay, Sex, Sick Character, Violence, all-human AU, check chapter notes for trigger warnings, tags to be added as story progresses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-19
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-06 22:05:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 51,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13420581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/di0zapeeRc/pseuds/di0zapeeRc
Summary: The origin of The Epistemology of Love Stucky.In rondo form, a principal theme (sometimes called the "refrain") alternates with one or more contrasting themes, generally called "episodes", but also occasionally referred to as "digressions" or "couplets". Possible patterns in the Classical period include: ABA, ABACA, or ABACABA.You don't have to have read the other works in this series for this fic to make sense, as it prequels all the other stories. For fear of outlining the entire story for you, this is just an angsty fic of where the Steve and the Bucky in my original two-part FrostIron fic (which you should still check out, even if you don't need it for this fic) came from. It'll be a harrowing tale.Expect loads of angst, sex and heartache.(Something about Stucky makes me want to lay it on with the smut)





	1. A: Base Motive/Refrain

**Author's Note:**

> TW//
> 
> Homophobia  
> Violence  
> Blood  
> Death  
> Asthma

Bucky is just about sick of this. Sick of always running after this little shit. He knows his dad would thrash him into next week if he heard him speaking like that, but no one hears you in your head and Steve Rogers is, in fact, a little shit.

“Steve!” Bucky calls after him, grabbing up Steve’s backpack as he passes it. “Steve Rogers, if you die on that field, I’ll kill you!”

“You’ll have to catch me first!” the Little Shit calls back.

That’s his name now, Bucky decides. He’s pretty sure that’s what Steve’s parents call him, anyway, when he isn’t around.

Outside, the sun is a bright, light-leak on the Polaroid sky. Bucky knows he can catch up with Steve easily if he wants, but the tiny, blonde boy always looks so happy when he’s running and exerting himself – until his asthma kicks in and he dehydrates too quickly and goes into insulin shock due to his diabetes. Life isn’t fair to Steve Rogers, but he never lets that stop him. Instead, he lives exuberantly on the precipice of death with Bucky shadowing his every move – inhalers, insulin and first-aid kit ever-ready.

Out on the field, Steve inserts himself into the soccer game already underway. He’s good, Bucky’ll give him that. He uses his size to his advantage and ducks and weaves through the bigger kids like they’re standing still. Suddenly, he trips over the ball and collapses, clutching at his small, skinny chest.

Bucky is there so fast, he seems to have materialized out of thin air. Steve’s eyes are closed and he’s gasping, reaching up into the air automatically. He knows Bucky is there. Bucky is always there. He pulls Steve to his feet and then off them, carrying him off the field to his backpack.

They go through the motions, like every other day when Steve tempts fate. As soon as the medication in the asthma inhaler takes effect, Steve is back on the field. This time, Bucky plays along to be closer to his friend.

Bucky can’t lie and say they don’t make a potent team. They always have. They’re so in-sync, they almost appear to be reading each other’s minds. They score three goals in a row, causing the other team to want to stop playing.

“It’s not fair,” James Leland says, crossing her arms in front of her chest. “You two can’t be on the same team. One of you swap with one of us or we stop the game.”

“Yeah,” her twin brother, André, emphasizes, coming to stand next to her.

“I’m not playing against Steve,” Bucky says, simply.

“Not even André and I are that close. Out with it: are you two boyfriends?” James asks, looking from Bucky to Steve.

“Ew, James,” André says, making a face at her.

“Shut the fuck up, André. Boys can date boys. It’s the 21st century, for fuck’s sake,” James hits back.

Bucky reckons his mom would’ve had a conniption by now over this language, but says nothing.

“We’re best friends,” Steve says, “and Bucky’s just scared I’ll kill myself. He likes to stay close, just in case.”

“I don’t know what shit your parents have been feeding you, but you can’t cure AIDS with an inhaler, dumbass,” André says, laughing at his own joke.

In a flash, he’s on the ground, clutching his nose that’s gushing blood. Bucky steps back in line next to Steve, who’s grinning and holding out a fist for Bucky to pound. Bucky obliges.

“Mr. Barnes,” an unwelcome voice sounds from behind them.

Steve and Bucky swing around, coming face to face with Mrs. Amanda Jones – the school principal. Out of the corner of his eye, Bucky sees Steve swallow visibly. He resists the urge to do the same. He’s not sorry for what he did. André is a jerk. Steve can’t help he’s sick.

“James, please take your brother to the nurse,” the principal instructs, before turning to Steve and Bucky. “Gruesome twosome, with me.”

They give each other worried glances and then follow her inside. The other kids on the playground turn to one another to whisper and stare shamelessly as they’re lead, for what feels like the millionth time, to the principal’s office. They trump in after her and take their usual seats opposite her desk and stare shamefully at their shoes to look sorry, even though they’re not.

“What did André say?” she asks, her tone unyielding.

“Do you want the direct quote or the PG version?” Steve mouths off, as usual.

“Don’t hold back,” she says.

Steve tells her and then sets his mouth in such a way that his expression is of an exasperated parent, not really clear as to what to do about his unruly child.

“I understand why you hit him,” Principal Jones says, hand scrubbing down her dark face, “but did you have to break his nose?”

“I don’t know my own strength?” Bucky offers, hopefully.

“He carried _me_ off the field like it was nothing,” puts in Steve.  

“That’s hardly an accomplishment, Mr. Rogers,” the principal deadpans.

Steve sits back in his chair, taking his defeat graciously. He’s absolutely drowning in his hoodie, but refuses to let his mom buy him clothes that actually fit. He wants to wear the clothes other boys his age wear. He looks a little like those guys on TV who rap and smoke weed, except he doesn’t have the skin or the hair for it. Bucky grins, despite himself.

“Something funny, Barnes?” the principal inquires.

“Nothing, Ma’am.”

“Then, wipe that grin off your mug, boy.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

The end-of-break bell rings and the boys look up at her expectantly.

“I can’t keep babysitting you two every break. I have things to do, too. Why can’t you just get along with everyone else? Is that too much to ask, Rogers?” Principal Jones asks, sounding tired.

“ _Why can’t everyone else just get along with me?_ ” he grumbles, staring at his clasped hands.

She sighs and reaches for one of the drawers in her desk. Out of it, she pulls two candy bars and holds them out to the boys. Then, she turns to the minifridge just behind her desk and pulls out two Diet Cokes and hands them to Steve and Bucky, as well.

“Rogers, life is going to be hard for you if you expect people to understand and have sympathy with your situation the way Bucky, here, has. He obviously loves you and is your friend and will do whatever he can to protect you, but you can’t just run headlong into life and expect him always to be there. It’s not fair towards you or him. So, do yourself and Bucky a favor and stay out of trouble? Play with Bucky. The other kids are going to hurt you,” the principal finishes, staring hard at Steve, who nods. “Now, get out of here, the both of you. Tell your teacher you were with me.”

“We know the drill,” Steve calls over his shoulder, cracking open his Diet Coke.

On the way back to class, they see which of them can drain their Cokes the fastest. Bucky lets Steve win, like always; the other kid savoring his victory with an almighty burp that causes a class to their left to fall abruptly silent for a long second and then sound up again. They laugh until their eyes stream with tears and they fall all over themselves and each other.

“Mrs. Donohue, Steve and Bucky are late again,” one of the kids whines as they find their seats.

“They’re always late, Bekah. Shut up,” Mrs. Donohue says, pushing her collapsed bun back up her head and taking a massive gulp of black coffee.

The boys give each other a look and then get their books ready.

 

Two years pass. Steve gets, if possible, even sicker and more prone to taunting death. Bucky now has spare inhalers, insulin and a full first-aid kit in his school bag at all times, which adds even more weight on top of all the books, but it does result in some killer muscles around his shoulders.

Today’s death-wish of choice is Steve opting to swim instead of sitting out like he usually does during gym. Everyone is bundled at the one corner of the big pool in Speedos, goggles and swimming caps.

Bucky stands near the edge of the water, quite keen to get in and feel the coolness on his skin. He loves swimming and has been taking lessons all summer. It’s been nice: three hours a week where he doesn’t have to worry about anyone or anything. His mom had even bought him a pair of ‘professional’ Speedo trunks to swim in and expensive goggles.

Steve is off near the wall, looking at least two years younger than everyone else, in an off-brand Speedo-like swimsuit and swim cap and goggles with a crack in one of the lenses. He’s all pale skin and knobbly knees and elbows. His cap bulges slightly on his head from the thick tuft of blonde hair it’s covering. Bucky wants to hand him a shirt and his Nintendo and just sit with him in the stands while the others swim. He’d sit it out for Steve. Better than having to be on constant guard in case the other boy swallows even a little bit of pool water.

“You gonna be okay?” Bucky asks, having walked over to his only friend.

“I don’t know anymore, man. Maybe I should sit today out, after all,” Steve responds, quietly. His eyes don’t meet Bucky’s. He’s embarrassed and angry. Bucky puts a hand on his shoulder.

“I’ll ask Mr. Porter if I can sit out, too, to keep you company. We can laugh at the other kids doing laps,” he offers.

“But won’t you get a bad grade for gym?” Steve asks, sadly, his wide blue eyes now intent on Bucky’s.

“I’ll ask Mom to get my swimming coach to contact Mr. Porter with my hours. It’s no big deal.”

Steve sighs, pushing away from the wall.

“Okay,” he says, sounding listless.

Mr. Porter is entirely agreeable with the situation, as usual, and Steve and Bucky go back to the locker rooms to get dressed again. As they walk in the doors, a gaggle of girls standing off to the side stares at them and giggles. Bucky glares at them. Steve’s ears go red.

They do end up playing on Steve’s Nintendo. Steve is tragic at Zelda, but they have fun watching him lose in increasingly worse ways. They only stop when the little console is grabbed out of Steve’s hands and tossed promptly into the pool. Steve bursts into tears.

“ _What the fuck, André?_ ” Bucky demands, standing and squaring up against the other kid.

“I’m so fucking sick of everyone falling all over themselves for the Great Baby, Steve Rogers. So you’re a warmed up, moldy turd, so what? Why does that make you more special than the rest of us, huh?” André screams down at Steve.

“André, stop it!” James says, coming up behind her brother and pulling him away.

He turns around and shoves her, full force, backwards and into the pool. Her face is a mask of shock when she hits the water, her limbs splayed.

“Hey, dipshit?” Bucky says, quietly. André turns to him. “Two things you never do where I can see you: one,” he counts, decking André full in the face. He feels one of the other boy’s teeth come loose, “you never get physical with a girl, and two,” he says, picking André up off the tiles and slamming a fist right into his stomach, “you NEVER fuck with _my best friend_.”

Dropping him again, Bucky rolls the other boy, with his foot, right into the pool after his sister. André is heaving for air and crying and bleeding from his mouth. He turns to James for help, but she gives him a disgusted look and swims off to the shallow end to get out.

When Mr. Porter comes back, he doesn’t even ask what happened. He sees the Nintendo at the bottom of the pool, not far from André. The teacher pulls André out, but leaves the Nintendo for now. Instead, he makes André apologize to Steve, who’s been crying his eyes out the entire time, and then he makes Bucky apologize to André. André heaves out a no and then runs from the pool room. Bucky is allowed to take Steve out of there. He throws an arm around the smaller boy’s shaking shoulders and Steve cries a big wet patch onto Bucky’s shirt near the collar.

They’re both sent to the front office, where Mr. Porter has the secretary call both their parents. Steve cries that it isn’t fair that they’re the ones getting in trouble when André started it by totaling his game. The Nintendo had been a birthday gift from Bucky and his family last year. The Rogers can’t afford flashy stuff like that. Steve’s mom is a dance teacher and his dad makes and sells custom furniture. So, money isn’t really something they have a lot of. Bucky parents, however, are both doctors. So, they let their son buy his best friend a Nintendo. It made them happy to see Bucky happy to see Steve happy. You know?

Anyway, no one looks happy when the parents finally show up. Bucky and Steve are made to stay outside in the front office while their moms and dads all head in to Principal Jones, ushered inside by Mr. Porter.  

It’s quiet for a while, with Bucky still holding Steve to his chest. The other boy has stopped crying, but has gotten comfortable with his head in Bucky’s neck. Bucky’s arms are now around him loosely, drawing comfort from the steady, albeit shallow, movement of Steve’s breathing. The familiarity relaxes Bucky.

“Why didn’t they call André’s dad?” Steve asks, then, quietly. He reaches over to toy with the fingers of Bucky’s right hand.

“I don’t think we’re in trouble, Stevie. I think Principal Jones just wants to calmly tell our parents what happened. They’ll probably call Mr. Leland later, after school. I think they’ll send us home after this,” Bucky explains in soothing, muted tones.

“Do you wanna meet up at our place later after swimming?” Steve asks, looking up at him. “I got two new comic books from Lory.”

“Definitely. I’ll bring some of those sugar-free gummy bears Mom buys,” Bucky says, smiling.

“Rad.”

The door opens again and everyone files back out. Principal Jones smiles at both of them. Steve disentangles himself from Bucky slowly and heads to his mom. Mrs. Rogers had probably come straight from a dance class, because she’s wearing a leotard, skirts and those high-heeled dancing sandals that somehow always just look distinctly different from normal heels, but Bucky can never make out how.

“Let’s go, Tiger,” Bucky’s dad says to him with a smile. He holds out his hand for his son.

“What about our stuff?” Bucky asks.

“I’ll keep it safe for you, in my office, until tomorrow. Take the day off. We’ll contact you about the game,” the principal aims the last part at Bucky’s parents.

“Thank you, Principal Jones,” Mr. Barnes says.

Steve runs over and throws his arms around her waist. She puts a hand on his fluffy, golden head and smiles down at him. Before she lets him go, she kneels and takes his hand in hers. She says something to him that Bucky can’t quite make out, but he can see the words “I’m sorry” from reading her lips.

When they part, Steve runs to Bucky and hugs him tightly. He hugs his friend back. Then, they leave with their parents. The two boys do their thing where they stare out the back window of their cars at each other until they can’t see each other anymore. They don’t live that far apart – Steve lives around the corner and on the other side of the trainyard – but Bucky’s parents don’t seem to be taking him home.

“Mom, where are we going?” he asks, frowning out the window at the busy main street.

“To the mall, sweetie. We thought we’d go for hot fudge sundaes and ski-ball,” she responds, smiling at him over her shoulder.

“No,” he responds.

“Something the matter, Tiger?” his dad asks.

“I’m not falling for this. Not again. You took me for hot fudge sundaes and ski-ball when grandma died. You took me for them when you broke my solar system mobile. You took me for hot fudge sundaes, ski-ball AND a movie when Onyx ran away,” Onyx was his old cat. “So, what are you trying to butter me up for this time?”

Mr. Barnes pulls over into a parking spot at the front of a store that sells fishing equipment. Bucky has to wonder who the hell buys fishing equipment in Brooklyn. Both his parents turn to him and his throat closes up immediately. In moments like these, he always finds himself wondering if this is what Steve’s asthma attacks feel like.

“Son, we want you to know how incredibly proud we are of you for standing up for your friend and André’s sister. Being loyal and having integrity are commendable traits and they’ll bring you far in the future,” Bucky’s dad says to him.

“Thanks, Dad,” says Bucky, just wanting to move on to the sad shit already. He’s tired of being softened up. He’s thirteen, for fuck’s sake. He can take whatever it is.

“But, sweetie, you knocked that boy’s teeth out. You really hurt him,” his mom says.

“Bu–”

“No, honey, I know. I know you were protecting Steve, and that the other kids pick on him. I know. But you can’t keep getting in trouble for Steve. These things, they go on your permanent record. And no one will care why you fought with the other kids. No one’s going to ask if you were defending a friend. The world is harsh, my angel. They’re just going to label you a troublemaker and that’ll make life so difficult for you down the line,” she explains.

“I understand,” he responds. “I won’t fight anymore. I’ll call a teacher or something. I promise.”

His parents share a loaded look. Then, his father sighs and delivers the deathblow.

“Son, we don’t think that’ll be enough. As long as you’re friends with Steve, you’ll always want to protect him, no matter what. It’s in your nature. So, we think you and Steve should take a little break. You need to learn to live without each other and Steve needs to learn to stand on his own two feet. This’ll be good for you both. You’ll s–”

But Bucky is gone. He’d slipped out of the car while his parents weren’t paying attention and is currently running down the sidewalk, pounding the pavement to Steve’s house. He may not be as small as his best friend, but he’s still fast and nimble and he weaves through the pedestrians easily. Distantly, he hears his parents calling for him, but they can’t see him and he’s too fast for anyone aware of the situation to catch him. The biggest risk he takes is crossing the big street, but he disappears in the crowd of people going his way and gets to the other side safely. Then, he’s off again, like an arrow from a bow.

It’s not long before he’s out of town and among the houses. Dogs in yards bark at him, little kids and their minders watch him race past, he chases some birds up from the sidewalk. His legs are aching and his chest is burning, but he doesn’t stop running. He needs to talk to Steve. They can’t make him leave his friend. It’s not _fair_.

Finally, after what feels like forever, he’s on the Rogers’ doorstep, pounding against the door. No matter how deeply he breathes, he can’t seem to get enough air into his lungs. His legs are also shaking, threatening to give out under his weight.

It’s Steve who throws open the door. Only then, when Bucky sees Steve’s tears, does he realize he’s also crying. The two boys embrace each other like never before.

“Steve, honey, who i–” Mrs. Rogers calls, but she spots them hugging in the door and falls abruptly silent.

She’s never seen her son as upset as he was when she told him he couldn’t be friends with Bucky anymore. She can’t blame him. The two boys have been all but inseparable since they met when they were four years old. Bucky had been the only other kid who’d wanted to play with Steve. All the other kids ran away from him, because he looked scary to them, with the nubbins in his nose and the contamination mask over his mouth. Not to mention, he was tiny, frail and pretty grey in pallor. Bucky didn’t care, though. Even back then, on their first day as friends, had Bucky protected Steve when the other kids were mean to him. It breaks her heart to see the two boys like this. She decides to leave and give them a moment.

“They wanna split us up, Stevie,” Bucky sobs. “I won’t let them. I’m not leaving you.”

Steve takes a deep breath, coughs once and then pulls away from Bucky. His tear-streaked face is also red and blotchy and his golden hair is a mess.

“Buck, we gotta talk about this,” he says, looking suddenly weirdly adult to Bucky.

“Stevie?”

“Bucky, they’re r-right. It’s not your job to protect me. We’re the same age. In fact, I’m older than you by a few months. You always get into fights for me and you always win, sure, but what if one day you didn’t? What if one day the other guy is too big and you get hurt bad? I wouldn’t be able to l-live with mys-self.”

He’s still crying, but his eyes are steady and intent on Bucky’s. He means every word. It’s driving Bucky insane. He can take care of himself. Hasn’t he proved that all this time? Why is everyone treating him like a baby?

“But Steve…”

“I mean it, Bucky.”

“I know, bu–”

“No. I won’t get you hurt and in trouble anymore. I can take care of myself. I’m a shitty friend to you, anyway. I never do anything for you. So, I’m doing something now. Now, go away,” Steve says, forcefully.

“No,” Bucky says, planting his feet, crossing his arms and glaring Steve down.

“Leave, Bucky. Or I’ll get my dad,” Steve threatens.

“I’m not scared of your dad, Steve. What the fuck?”

“Then, I’ll get yours,” the other boy counters.

Bucky’s eyes grow wide and fearful.

“You wouldn’t…” he says.

“Try me, Barnes. Now, get the hell out of my yard and go away. If you so much as talk to me at school tomorrow, I’m reporting you to Principal Jones,” says Steve, his chin raised defiantly.

“You’re right,” says Bucky, backing down the walkway. “You _are_ a shitty friend.”

At that, Bucky runs again. He doesn’t run as far this time, though. He just runs to the trainyard. There, he runs along the side of the tunnel that leads to the subway, and then down a blocked off tunnel with a ‘DANGER: KEEP OUT’ sign in front of it. It’s pitch black down there, but Bucky isn’t scared. He and Steve have been coming down here for six years. When he rounds the bend in the tunnel, he starts to slow down. He puts his hands out in front of him and, after exactly five steps (like always), he feels it: the metal of a train car.

Back in the day, on the trial use of this tunnel, a train with only two other cars besides the locomotive had come around the bend much too fast at much too sharp an angle (after getting bad information from the engineer up top) and the backmost car had snapped off and barreled straight into the wall. It is now stuck in there, lodged into the concrete and bones of the structure, and the tunnel has not been used since, as the bend was deemed permanently unsafe.

He let’s himself in and immediately flicks on the battery-powered lamp they brought down here. The interior has been made quite comfortable over the years. They have beanbag chairs, a throw rug, posters, a bookshelf and an old box TV and this ancient rig for cartridge games. Bucky had also stolen and dismantled his dad’s old lawnmower and built them a makeshift generator to run the TV and the minifridge on. He’d go out for food later. He thinks they still have some canned spaghetti somewhere, along with a few unopened bottles of Coke. Not that diet shit – the good stuff.

For now, though, he grabs the lamp and heads inside, makes himself comfortable in one of the beanbag chairs, and passes out.

 

It feels as though years have passed by the time he wakes up. Bucky knows that it’s only because it’s so dark down here and you can’t tell night from day. Checking his phone, he sees that it’s about 7 PM. That means he slept for a little over five hours. He checks the date, just to be sure, but it is still the same day. He realizes then what woke him up: he’s hungry. Flipping the lamp back on, he goes in search of the canned spaghetti.

Along with the spaghetti and quite a few other great, canned meals, he finds some candy, too. He decides not to have any tonight and to make the meals down here last as long as possible. He doesn’t know how long he intends to stay, but he knows it’s not just tonight. He also counts about eight bottles of Coke. So, he feels well cared for. He really would make everyone sorry they ever treated him like a baby.

He can survive down here, no problem.

The first time he questions the certainty of that statement, is when he wakes up to a massive cockroach eating out the dregs of tomato sauce in his empty spaghetti can. The thing is as big as his thumb. He screams and jerks away, sending the spaghetti can flying and the cockroach disappearing behind the TV. He makes a list and puts insecticide at the top.

Two days later, after making a run to the corner store in Steve’s neighborhood (without going to visit or seeing Steve at all), he comes back to a hobo having found his train wreck. He goes around the side of the train and bangs on it loudly. The hobo leaves to inspect. Bucky then sneaks into a hidden opening near where the car is lodged into the wall. They usually keep this opening covered up, otherwise it gets draughty. Once inside, he covers the opening again, slams the door at the front/back of the car shut and starts making big dog noises. Now, his noises have never really convinced him, but, in the big cavernous space of the tunnel, they sound kind of unholy and crazy. The hobo runs off and disappears around the bend, into the darkness.

The day he really considers just going home is when he finally decides to part with a little gas and fire up the gaming system. However, instead of the usual sputtering engine noise, there’s a loud buzzing, a crackle and then a snap. In front of Bucky’s eyes, the TV catches fire.

“Fuck!” he shouts and scrambles away.

“Move!” a voice yells from behind him and he instinctively throws himself to the right. He doesn’t see who it is, because he also covers his head. To right, too, because the next second there’s a loud crash as two distinct glass objects shatter.

Bucky stays with his head down, feeling hopeless and angry. He doesn’t want to go home yet, but nothing’s been going right. If there was ever a divine sign, this past week has to have been it. He guesses that at least he tried. Whatever.

“Buck?”

Bucky’s arms come down from over his head slowly.

“Stevie?”

“Yeah. It’s me,” he says. “You okay? You didn’t get burnt, did you?”

Bucky sits up awkwardly, taking inventory of all his limbs. Nothing. He came away entirely unscathed. He tells Steve this. Steve holds out a hand to help him up. But when Bucky takes it, Steve pulls him into a tight hug instead.

And suddenly everything makes sense again. Suddenly, the past week seems like it’d been the craziest plan ever. Of course, it wouldn’t have worked. Steve wasn’t here. This is _their_ place.

Steve doesn’t let go. Not that Bucky minds. He won’t admit it to anyone – not even Steve – but he’s always really liked hugging Steve. He smells like eucalyptus and spearmint and he’s so skinny that Bucky can always wrap him up entirely when they hug.

_Boys can date boys. It’s the 21 st century, for fuck’s sake._

Not that Bucky dwells on hugging Steve too much. It’s whatever. Brothers hug, too, right?

That’s when he feels it: Steve is crying. Absolutely sobbing, actually. No, no, no. Steve must’ve known he’d be here. Where else would Bucky go? Is this because he’s happy to see Bucky? Bucky pushes Steve back just a little, but Steve’s grip on Bucky is vicelike.

“Stevie? What’s the matter? Why are you crying?” he asks, gently.

“B-ucky… I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry. Fuck, _I’m so sorry_ …” Steve sobs, chokes, coughs and sobs some more.

“No! It’s okay. It was a stupid fight. I understand why you said that stuff. It’s okay, Stevie,” Bucky tries to soothe by rubbing circles on Steve’s back. He’s so skinny that Bucky can feel his ribs and spine through his thick down coat.

The smaller boy pulls away slowly, seemingly gathering himself. He coughs another couple of times, but dries his face and takes a few deep breaths.

“Bucky, there’s something I have to tell you. It’s my fault and, after I tell you, you’ll never wanna be my friend again, but it’s okay. You need to know and I take full responsibility for it,” Steve says, looking at Bucky’s chest instead of his eyes.

“I’m sure it’s not, Steve. I’m sure it’ll work out – whatever it is. You can tell me anything,” Bucky does his best to set Steve at ease, but Steve just gets tenser and tenser.

Steve closes his eyes then, clenches his small fists until his knuckles are bone white and lets out a big whoosh of air.

“When your parents came to us to ask if we’ve seen you, I told them yes, but that you left. I told them I didn’t know where you were. We always promised we would never tell anyone about this place. Last night, they drove around to look for you. They drove into our neighborhood. A dr-drunk…” Steve breaks down again. Tears spill out from under his closed eyelids and his breathing is ragged and loud.

Bucky can’t move. He suddenly feels ice-cold all over. In fact, he’s even struggling to get enough air into his lungs. He can’t stop clenching and unclenching his jaw. It’s starting to hurt, but he can’t stop. The more it hurts, the more frozen Bucky feels.

Steve takes a deep, bone-rattling breath and continues, looking Bucky in the eye now, regardless of the tears: “A drunk driver ran a red light and hit them head-on. They’re both gone, Buck. I’m so, so, so _fucking_ sorry, man.”

Bucky still can’t move. His jaw is now permanently clenched. He can’t see, either, or hear. He’s in a vacuum: sensationless, except for the soul-deep cold. His body aches like he has brain-freeze all over.

Something warm presses to his face.

It’s like a bubble pops around him and all perception suddenly streams back, entirely overwhelming. He screams. He can’t help it, or do anything to stop himself. He can’t do anything else, either. He just screams, shrieks his pain and disbelief. The tunnel magnifies and echoes, intensifies and mirrors. It drives him insane.

He sets off running.

“BUCKY!”

_BUCKY!_

_BUCKY._

_Bucky!_

_Bucky…_

The tunnel calls back around him. His footsteps slap wetly on the concrete, making it sound like a hundred Buckys are running away from the demons down in that hole.

Outside, the light blinds him and he trips. He feels his jeans tear, and, beneath them, his knees. The gravel shreds his palms, too. He crumbles. He lays on the ground and curls in on himself and screams and cries.

Steve exits the tunnel a little behind Bucky. His chest is closing up at the exertion, but he pulls out his inhaler and takes two pumps. Breathing deeply, he goes over to Bucky and throws himself over his friend.

Bucky won’t stop screaming. Steve doesn’t think he can. Steve wishes he could take his first-aid kit and fix Bucky up the way he’s always fixed up Steve. He wishes he could go back and just tell Mr. and Mrs. Barnes where Bucky was. He aches to make it better for Bucky – for the boy who has done everything and anything for him since the day they met nine years ago. This shouldn’t be happening to Bucky. Not to Bucky. To anyone else, but not to someone as good and kind as this boy here.

They lay there for hours. Finally, Bucky loses his voice from all the screaming and he doesn’t have enough energy to cry anymore. The tears just run grooves down his face and pool in the gravel around his head.

Steve gets off him and reaches down to help him to his feet. Bucky stares at his hand a moment – and then slaps it away. He scrambles up on his own and glares Steve down. Never in all their years of friendship has Steve ever seen a look like that on Bucky’s face.

Hatred.

Steve was prepared to be blamed, but now, in this moment, he finds himself wishing he’d died instead of Bucky’s parents. Anything to keep Bucky from looking at him like that. Anything and everything else – just not Bucky hating him.

“I never want to see you again. NEVER again, you hear me? _You did this_. _YOU DID THIS!_ ” he shrieks at Steve, his voice unrecognizably hoarse.

“I know. I know I did. Bucky, I’m so sorry…”

“SHUT THE FUCK UP, ROGERS. You left me! You told me to go away. Now they’re dead! YOU DID THIS AND I NEVER WANT TO SEE YOU AGAIN!”

This time, when Bucky runs off, Steve doesn’t chase after him.

He doesn’t know how long he stands there, but the sun has long set by the time he finally gets home. His mom doesn’t faff over him like she normally does. He just goes upstairs to his room and locks the door.


	2. B: Alternate Motive/Episode

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW//
> 
> homophobia  
> transphobia  
> violence  
> blood
> 
> (I know I've already put these as tags, but my trigger warnings serve as extra reminders. I don't pull my punches. So, if these things bother you, this isn't the story for you.)

Home is easier. Bucky discovers this after he can finally manage to stop sitting just inside the front door, crying. He knows they’re dead. He saw it on the news. There is a city-wide search for him. When the police had come to search the house, he’d hidden in the basement no one knew existed, because it can only be accessed from a trapdoor that you would only find if you knew it was there. Under no misconceptions, Bucky knows Steve knows he’s still here, but is running interference with the cops for him. Bucky hates him so much, but it’s such an empty hate, because he knows he just hates Steve for someone to blame.

It’s his own fault his parents are dead. Why did he have to have been such a fucking idiot? What kind of little kid ass shit did he pull by running away? How immature could he be?

Self-resentment aside, he’s living quite comfortably by himself in his house. It kills him, here amongst his parents’ things. Everything smells like his mom or looks like his dad liked. He hasn’t gone anywhere near the upstairs; instead sleeping on the floor in the den by the TV. He lives off what he can throw together from the contents of the fridge and the pantry. Cooking is always dangerous, because if he so much as fries bacon a tad too crispy, the smoke detectors go off and the jig is up.

As for school, Bucky’s kicked the idea like a bad habit. Who needs that shit? He found his parents’ wallets on the small stand by the front door. He has money for a while, and after that he’ll get a job. He’s big for his age and looks older than he is. He isn’t afraid of working. He even cleans up after himself and keeps the house spotless. His mom would have been proud.

His mom…

He still can’t believe they’re gone. He can’t believe he’d left them for Steve. Steve who ended up leaving him, too. He’s so angry about this sometimes that he has to keep from punching holes through the dry wall. In the basement, they have a home gym, a library, and a play room. When the urge to punch gets too overwhelming, he goes down the gym and takes it out on his mom’s punching bag.

As for sleeping in the den: he doesn’t sleep much. When he does, he’s woken up by terrible nightmares every time. In them, he’d be frozen as someone butchered his parents right in front of his eyes. After the person is done, they’d come over to Bucky and pull off their mask – it’s Bucky, a morbidly gleeful look on his face. The first night, he’d screamed himself awake. Ten minutes later, there’d been someone pounding on their door. Bucky hadn’t answered and had stayed really quiet until they’d left.

The cops had come the next day. He knows what it’d mean if they found him: he’d be put in the orphanage. He doesn’t have any other family. His parents had both been only children and he didn’t have any grandparents. He isn’t about to go live with some strangers or share a room with kids he doesn’t know. He likes his house. He’ll live here. He just has to stay out of sight. He can do this. At least here he doesn’t have to worry about cockroaches and hobos, or the electrical appliances randomly catching on fire. Maybe he can even work himself up to going to sleep in his room. He’ll get around to it. He has all the time in the world.

Three weeks pass. He gets the hang of cooking. He learns to wash his clothes and dry them. Sweeping is a daily occurrence, so he doesn’t have to vacuum. He moves down into the basement for extra invisibility and watches whatever he wants on his dad’s laptop with the Wi-Fi. Surprisingly, he discovers he really likes horror movies and hard rock music. He doesn’t want to be like those metalhead kids he sees sometimes through the fence of their school. They share a fence with the high school. Those kids look like Slenderman in black fatigues and combat boots. They scare him far more than Slenderman, too.

He finds this movie called _When a Stranger Calls_ , which would be pretty scary if the main character wasn’t the stupidest person he’s ever seen. She finally runs up the stairs to check on the children – when suddenly Bucky feels a hand on his shoulder. He screams and then yanks his headphones off.

“ _STEVE, YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE!_ ”

The little shit is laughing. He’s laughing himself stupid at Bucky. His eyes are streaming and he’s leaning back, hand over his heart like it’s trying to escape through his chest. Bucky wants to punch him in the face. As it is, he pauses his movie and gets up off the floor. While he waits for Steve to quit pissing himself, he stretches out his stiff muscles. They all pop satisfyingly and he yawns.

“Ha… you should have seen your face,” Steve manages, absently pulling out an inhaler and taking two pumps of it. He wipes at the tears, the leftover smile seemingly stuck on his face.

“I could deck you right where you stand, Rogers. What do you want? I thought I told you I never wanted to see you again,” Bucky says, arms crossed in front of his chest threateningly.

“Well, then, kick me out, Barnes, because I came to talk,” he says, comfortably putting his hands in the pouch of his hoodie.

Bucky knows he should be mad. He knows he should just kick Steve out right now for just walking into his house and probably blowing his cover. None of this bodes well for Bucky – but, as much as he likes to convince himself it is, his parents’ deaths are not Steve’s fault. Steve did what he thought was the right thing, and he did the right thing again when he came to find Bucky to tell him about the crash, instead of Bucky finding out secondhand from some cop at one of Brooklyn’s grimy precincts.

“So, talk…” Bucky sighs, moving to stand more comfortably. He doesn’t offer Steve a seat and doesn’t take one himself, preferring to look imposing as far as he can.

“Buck… Dude, I miss you. It’s been over a month in which we’ve spoken once and it was just me telling you… I mean, I’ve been fine and you… You look like you’ve been doing great on your own, but you’re a kid, Bucky. We’re kids. You shouldn’t have to be by yourself like this. I guess… I guess I’m just trying to say that I really miss you and you aren’t alone, because you have me and my mom and dad. O-okay?” Steve finishes with a stutter, and drops his eyes to the ground.

Bucky closes his tired eyes and let’s the tears that are never really gone spill down his face again. They burn his cheeks, like his face is as dead and frozen as he feels on the inside. He knows a big part of him died with his parents. He sure as fuck doesn’t feel thirteen anymore.

When Steve embraces him, then, he leans heavily on the other boy. He doesn’t have it in him to fight anymore. He doesn’t want to be strong anymore. Steve is right: they ARE kids. Just kids. He wants to be just a kid.

“Come on, Buck. Over here. Just to the couch, okay? Just so you can sit,” Steve murmurs and helps him to big, comfy leather couch in the library.

Once there, Bucky falls sideways and let’s himself go boneless as he cries out all the pent-up tension. Steve sits in front of him on the floor, running his fingers through Bucky’s hair and wiping away tears. At some point, Steve notices Bucky’s hands. They’re cut up and bruised from going at the punching bag without gloves. Steve takes the backpack off his back, then, and cleans and binds them. The stinging of the cleaning fluid helps bring Bucky back into himself. Everything hurts and he’s so incredibly tired.

“Stevie,” he says, hoarsely.

Steve looks up at him intently.

“Would you stay here tonight? I need… sleep. Could you just sleep here with me?” he asks.

“Sure thing,” Steve says with a soft smile. He whips out his phone, presumably to text his mom. When he’s done, he puts it down on the floor and then gets up. “Be back in a bit, okay? You stay here and relax and I’ll go get us some food and bring down some bedding. We need a mattress. I can’t sleep on that couch.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything. Just attempts a grateful smile. It’s enough for Steve.

When the smaller boy comes back, he makes a couple of trips. First, he manages to shove Bucky’s mattress through the trapdoor. His bedding follows. Then, he calls Bucky over for some help. Steve made them grilled cheese and a thermos of hot chocolate, and he needed Bucky to take it all from him, so he can climb back down the ladder. Bucky chuckles wetly when the hood of Steve’s hoodie falls forward, over his eyes, when he leans down into the hole the trapdoor makes.

Finally comfortable in their shared bed, the boys eat their slightly burnt grilled cheese and watch a different movie that isn’t scary or tragic, and they laugh and drink too-sweet hot chocolate that Steve says is for Bucky, specifically, because he’s still in shock and sugar helps for shock.

After they finish all the food and the movie, Bucky lies down on the first comfortable bed he’s had for over a month and quietly dreads his nightmares. He doesn’t want them tonight; not with Steve here. He doesn’t know what to do about them, though. When he closes his eyes, they’re there immediately.

Tonight, he seems to be strapped into the backseat of his parents’ car and they’re already dead and the car is just careening this way and that down the highway. There’s blood everywhere and their lifeless bodies are tossed left and right by the momentum of the car, and Bucky’s crying, but it doesn’t stop. He can’t get his safety belt loose, so he can’t climb over his dad to stop the car.

“Bucky! Hey, Bucky! Wake up! You’re having a nightmare,” Steve’s voice sounds up in the duskiness.

“I know,” he says, immediately aware. “I can’t stop having them. They won’t let me sleep. I’m so _tired_ …”

“Come here,” says Steve. He pulls on Bucky’s shoulder. He positions Bucky so he’s lying on Steve’s chest, in his arms, like Bucky always holds him when he gets upset.

It’s more comfortable than Bucky would’ve thought, given Steve’s boniness. He lets himself relax into the other boy. His mind is suddenly filled with Steve: the smell of him, the feel of him, his smile, his laugh, his too-big clothes.

“Thanks, Stevie,” he mutters, with the last of his consciousness.

“I’m with you, Buck. ‘Til the end of the line, remember?” he hears Steve whisper.

He remembers.

They’d been five years old and had only been friends for a year. He and Steve had been playing at his house: Power Rangers in the backyard. When Steve fell and scraped open his knee, Bucky had gone to get a band-aid to patch him up.

“Do you think we’ll be friends forever? Like, until we’re dead?” Steve had asked, while Bucky stuck on the band-aid.

“Dad says we’re not supposed to talk about dying. He says it’s morbid. I think it means sad. He says people reach the end of their lines, same as everything else,” Bucky had replied, squinting at Steve in the sunlight.

“Okay. Do you think we’ll be friends until the end of the line for us?” Steve had amended.

“‘Til the end of the line,” Bucky had said.

“‘Til the end of the line,” Bucky says now.

He falls asleep and doesn’t dream.

 

A year later and Bucky finally has a name for it.

_Boys can date boys. It’s the 21 st century, for fuck’s sake._

He’s always known it, but it’s always said in hushed tones and with a sense of wrongness about the word. He never felt wrong in what he was feeling, so he always assumed there must be a different word for him.

Turns out there isn’t.

“Do you ever just think about…” Steve starts, trailing off dreamily, “…girls?”

They’re lying on the lawn outside. Or Steve is. Bucky is sitting and pulling out grass. He’d much rather be anywhere else. Anywhere in the world is better than this heteronormative hell.

“No,” he says too quickly.

 _Fuck_.

He’s never actually _told_ Steve.

He gets the look he was expecting. Thinking fast, he saves himself: “I just mean, I’m really serious about swimming these days. There’ll be tons of time for dating later, right?”

“I guess. Just don’t wait too long. The good ones might be taken by then,” Steve says, eyes on Samantha Shapiro or Stephany Mallard. Bucky can’t tell from where he’s sitting.

“I assume you do,” Bucky replies.

Steve frowns.

“Think about girls, I mean,” Bucky elaborates.

“All the time, brother. All. The. Time.”

The bell rings and they get up and dust themselves off. Not for the first time, Bucky is thrown by how he and Steve are the same height now. Not too long after Mr. and Mrs. Rogers adopted Bucky, Steve’s doctor told them about a new kind of treatment they could put Steve on that’ll overall improve his immune system. They were excited to try it. After the two month trial period, Steve had reacted incredibly well. He’d been practically normal, save for his panic attacks. He’d begged his parents to put him on the treatment permanently. They’d agreed. They would do anything for their son – even, Bucky later learned, each get an extra job to afford the medication. He hadn’t told them he knew and he hadn’t mentioned it to Steve, either.

One of the main effects of having a functional immune system is that Steve could finally catch up in the growth department, and he basically shot up overnight. They share a room now and there had been many nights where Steve had screamed Bucky awake with growth pains. He’d practically taken over from Mrs. Rogers, where Steve’s care is concerned. He still has inhalers, insulin and a fully stocked first-aid kit in his locker. But Steve doesn’t even take the inhaler with his anxiety meds in anymore. Instead, he prefers for Bucky to talk him through it. He’s weening himself off all the old medication.

This would be good – if he isn’t also pushing himself in other, more dangerous ways. He’s taken to going to the gym with Bucky. Bucky’s tried to keep Steve’s exercise light and the strain just enough for Steve to get some definition, if not actual muscles. Steve has entirely disregarded Bucky and now looks like a decently sized baseball player. Bucky has preached to him ad nauseum, but still drools every time Steve takes off his shirt.

He wishes there’s some way to knock his own dick in the dirt. He’s fucking pathetic. How Steve hasn’t picked up on it by now is beyond Bucky.

Ahead of them in the hall is James Leland. James has also gone through a metamorphosis of sorts. James discovered that she – now they – is gender-fluid. Apparently, this means that gender is in flux for them and that they have girl-days and boy-days and sometimes days in between, but consistently hate themself throughout all of them. Bucky relates on every level except gender.

As they watch, Dennis McCabe shoves James against the lockers and throws a slur at them. Bucky sighs at the sheer stupidity of every fucker in his grade (except for Steve, of course, though that is pretty touch and go sometimes) and speeds up. James has already dumped their bag and squared up against Dennis. When Dennis makes to shove them again, James ducks under his arms, grabs him around the waist and throws him on the floor. Bucky reaches them then.

“Need backup?” he asks.

“Do I look like I need backup?” James asks, pressing their foot down on Dennis’ chest.

“I mean, no, but I don’t know if you maybe wanted to tag team it or whatever.”

Dennis grabs onto James’ foot and tries to shove it off him. James kneels, displacing all their weight onto the foot on Dennis’ chest, pulls back and lands a neat, strong punch right in Dennis’ left eye.

“I’m good,” James says to Bucky.

“You _look_ good,” Bucky responds, flinching at the eye that’s already swelling shut.

“Stop flirting with me,” James says and aims a kick at Dennis’ ribs. They duck into the milling crowd right as a teacher makes an appearance. Bucky follows, but turns to scan the crowd for Steve.

“I’m right here,” the latter says, from right behind Bucky. “I have art, though, so I’ll see you later.”

“Later,” says Bucky. He follows James a ways and then catches up with them when they get through the math-throng. They both have study hall now, which means a whole lot of sitting around, doing nothing.

“So, are you going to the dance?” James asks.

“Are you kidding?” Bucky counters.

“I figured you could use it as an excuse to finally tell Stevie-boy how you feel. Ask him to be your date,” says the other kid, shoving their messy curls off their forehead.

“No fucking way, dude. He literally talked to me about girls today. As in, asking them out. If my chances were ‘slim to none’ before, they’ve now progressed to ‘a snowball’s chance in hell’,” he recounts miserably.

“He could be bisexual, Jimmy. You’ll never know until you take the plunge.”

James calls them Jimmy and he calls James Jim. They’re both James, which is what they’d bonded over at first. ‘Bucky’ is short for Buchanan, which is Bucky’s middle name and his mother’s maiden name.

“And the Easter Bunny could be who’s destroying our vegetable garden,” Bucky quips. “Face it, Jim: I’m doomed to pine at Edward Cullen-like levels of angst, forever.”

“I’m not nearly emo enough to deal with this. I’m buying you a Snickers from the vending machine. Come on,” James says, dragging Bucky after them.

“Can it be a protein bar?” Bucky requests, letting himself be dragged.

They get their snacks and then slip out the front doors to their favorite hiding spot: the roof. It’s technically a difficult climb, but James taught Bucky some parkour and some of Bucky’s training at the gym is gymnastics. It helps for stamina and such. Anyway, a few complicated jumps later and they’re on the roof and out of sight.

“How are things at home?” Bucky asks James, before twisting the cap off his Vitamin Water.

“Same old. Dad still pretends I don’t exist unless I’m in a skirt and lipstick. André’s still in denial. I’m still banished to my room indefinitely. Going to the gym with you and Steve is still the only time I get out. Oh, something happened,” James says, the hand holding their protein bar suspended in front of their face.

Bucky’s eyebrows raise questioningly.

“I was called in by Principal Jones two days ago. Yeah, apparently, I’m not allowed to change in the same locker room as any of the other kids anymore. I have an ‘assigned’ stall and that’s where I’m meant to change from now on. I’m also not allowed to use any of the student bathrooms anymore – I’ve been given a pass to use the faculty one, but only once a day,” they explain, not looking at Bucky. They take a bite out of their protein bar, but Bucky can see their jaw working a little too much for it to be just chewing.

Bucky is fuming. Utterly and completely foaming at the mouth. How fucking _dare_ these fucks treat James like some fucking plague-carrier??? Who the fuck do they think they are?

Before James can stop him, he’s jumping back down and storming back to the entrance.

“JIMMY! Jimmy, no! It’s okay! Hey, _Bucky_!” James calls after him.

He stops dead, right outside the doors, but doesn’t turn to face James.

“Listen, it’s not a big deal, okay? I’m used to it. People don’t understand and so they’re scared. It’s whatever. Don’t get in trouble for me,” they say, hand on Bucky’s shoulder.

Bucky takes their hand and pulls them around, so they’re face to face. Bucky’s pretty tall, but so is James, and so the height difference is only about an inch and a half. He still tilts his head down slightly to level with James, their hands still clasped.

“You shouldn’t have to make excuses for them treating you like shit. So what if you’re different? Abigail Costner can get the schoolboard to install ramps for her wheelchair and a computerized desk in every class to accommodate her, but _you can’t even use the fucking bathroom_? It’s not fair, Jim. They can’t do this. They need to deal with their shit. You don’t have to deal for them.”

Then, he’s storming through the door and straight to Principal Jones’ office. He doesn’t even ask the secretary if he can go in – he just throws her door open and marches inside. She’s in the middle of a talk with two seventh grade girls when he interrupts them.

“Principal Jones, I’m gay,” he admits, before his nerve leaves him.

The two girls give each other shocked looks and then turn to stare at him.

Principal Jones frowns deeply, but says: “I’m, uh, happy…for you, Mr. Barnes.”

“Then why can’t you be happy for James? What’s this crap I’m hearing about James being confined to a stall and not being allowed to use the bathroom? If you’re going to ban James basic human rights because they make you uncomfortable, then you’ll have to ban me, too. How do the think the other guys’ll feel about having to share a bathroom and a locker room with a gay guy?” Bucky is breathing hard.

“It’s out of my hands, Mr. Barnes. The arrangements with James are per the parents’ request. I can’t go against them. They’re what keeps this school going,” the principal counters.

“Then call another meeting and tell them about me. James is a _person_. André walks around naked in the locker rooms and I can assure you none of us are particularly huge fans of his pickle-sized wiener, but he gets to change where he wants. James doesn’t even _like_ girls, but they have the same parts as them. So, why can’t they just change with them instead of in a tiny cubicle? _It’s not fair!_ ” Bucky doesn’t know when he started yelling, but he’s yelling by the end.

The two seventh graders both look alarmed, but also incredibly curious. Their heads swivel back and forth between Bucky and the principal like they’re at a tennis match.

“You two,” Principal Jones says, eyes on the two girls, “stop calling each other sluts and bitches. You’re women. Men will call you that enough. We girls gotta stick together, because we’re all we’ve got. Now, leave.”

They get up and rush to leave, but not before one of them turns to Bucky and asks: “Are you really gay?”

He sighs. “Yes.”

“Brianna,” she says to the other girl as they leave, “you had a crush on a gay guy, you dumb lesbian.”

“ _“You dumb lesbian”_ ,” Bucky quotes, humorously, under his breath.

“You’re forcing my hand, Bucky,” the principal says after her door falls shut.

“I knew you’d see it my way,” he responds.

He knows the school can’t kick him out. He’s gotten it all kinds of sponsorships with his swimming. They need him, or their funding goes under. They’ll fight tooth and claw to keep him. Well, if they want him, they’ll have to keep James, too. Keep them and treat them better.

“You’re an admirable young man, Bucky Barnes. James and Steve are both lucky to have you,” she says. Her voice is suddenly soft and full of… something. He doesn’t know what, but it calms him.

“You’re the first person I told, you know. James always just knew. Not even Steve knows yet,” Bucky says, looking at his sneakers.

“Well, he will soon. You made sure of that,” she says, giving him a look.

“I don’t really care much anymore. If it helps James, I’ll look him in the eye and tell him myself. I’ll kiss him, too, for good measure,” Bucky’s mouth runs away with him.

“That boy got luckier with you than he could ever imagine.”

Deciding “screw it”, he responds with: “Yeah, he did. The little shit.”

This has Principal Jones laughing. He laughs, too. There’s a knock at the door.

“It sounds jolly in here,” James says, poking their head around the door.

“Mx. Leland. We have much to discuss. Why don’t you come sit down here with Mr. Barnes and I’ll see about getting us some coffee,” the principal says, high-spirited.

James nods and leaves both their and Bucky’s bags by the door. Before taking a seat, they pull Bucky into a tight hug and kiss his cheek. Bucky comes away blushing.

“Love you, Jimmy.”

“Love you, Jim.”

 

“Bucky.”

“No.”

“So, you’re not, then?”

“No. I meant “no, I’m not talking to you about it”.”

“But does that mean you are?”

Bucky stops and stares him down, but Steve has never been intimidated by Bucky. The incessant little shit.

“What does it matter, Steve?”

“It doesn’t,” Steve says, simply. “Not to me, anyway.”

This brings Bucky up short.

“You’re not, like, weirded out…or anything?” Bucky asks, scoffing his feet on the asphalt.

“Bucky, you’re my brother. What would I have to be weird about?” Steve returns.

_Maybe the fact that I’m hopelessly and utterly in love with you, but no big deal._

“I don’t know. Everyone else was weird. I guess I’m being stupid. You were never weird about James.”

“Aside from the two of us, James is our best friend. James also needs friends, or their brother is going to kill them. So, can we lay this to rest now? I love you, Buck, just as you are,” Steve says, hand on Bucky’s upper arm.

Bucky smiles at him, hoping it looks sincere. He wishes the ground would tear open and swallow him whole.

They continue to the bus stop, talking about nothing in particular. While they wait for the bus, Steve takes off his hoodie. Bucky stares shamelessly at his toned, exposed stomach, hating both himself and Steve for being so fucking pushy about working out. Bucky can hardly concentrate in that gym. He’s forever thankful that James joins them. They go to stand at the back in their usual places, smiling at Mrs. Barrera and her parrot. The bird lets Steve scratch between its feathers.

“So, when you said you don’t think about girls…” Steve says quietly to Bucky.

“I meant, at all. I have never and probably will never,” Bucky answers, earnestly.

“You didn’t give yourself too hard a time, did you?” Steve concernedly asks.

“Not really. I mean, it was something to get my head around, but it literally took me a week, maybe?? Nothing hectic. You sort of always know this about yourself.”

Steve nods thoughtfully.

They then talk about swimming and Bucky asks him if he packed his speedo, but he says no and that he’ll just sit on the side and use the Wi-Fi to do research for their history essay. Bucky thanks him and Steve holds out a fist for Bucky to pound.

“We’ll have to tell Mom and Dad, you know?” Steve says the thing Bucky’s been dreading ever since Steve first said that he knew.

They’re off the bus now, heading into the gym Bucky trains at. The gym he and Steve go to with James is a closer to where they live. It’s also shittier than this one.

“Yeah.”

“I know this is something you have to do on your own, but do you want me to be there? For moral support?” Steve offers. “It’s the least I could do, Buck, after all you’ve done for me.”

“Stevie…”

“If you need me, I’m there. Just say the word, alright?”

And that’s that. Bucky goes to change into his swimming things and Steve takes their stuff to where the internet is strongest.

Bucky gets to shut down, then. Unlike most swimmers, he guesses, Bucky doesn’t have to concentrate so hard when he swims. It all comes incredibly naturally to him. He feels more at home in the water than anywhere else. It’s like he becomes entirely himself when he swims: no worrying about Steve, no worrying about James, no worrying about whether people will accept him, no worrying about school, no worrying about his family’s slow descent into poverty. It’s just him and the water and his muscles on autopilot.

He goes through all the motions, until he hears his coach call for him. He stops, then, and stands. Pulling off his goggles, he wades over to the edge.

“James,” his coach calls him James, because his mom had signed him up as James B. Barnes. Who the fuck James B. Barnes is, Bucky doesn’t know, but that asshole sounds like some fake deep pseudo-intellectual and Bucky does not vibe, “I think we need to step up to the butterfly. We’ve been avoiding it for years, but I honestly believe you’ll be good at it.”

“I honestly don’t,” Bucky responds. What he’d meant to say was “I think you’re full of shit”, but he’d caught himself just in time. “Coach, I am not nearly wiry or supple or agile enough. You’d have a better chance teaching it to Steve.”

“But I’m not coaching Steve. I’m not saying you have to compete with it, but can we at least give it a try? If we see it doesn’t work, then we’ve at least given it the old college try. What do you say?”

Bucky sighs, hands on his hips. He supposes there’s no harm in trying. If he’s going to look like an idiot anywhere and to anyone, it might as well be in a pool alone with his coach. He nods.

“That’s my Olympian,” his coach says, smiling brightly.

Bucky smiles to himself. Then, he does a few more laps while his coach goes and changes into his swimming things, as well. Steve wanders over and asks Bucky what’s up. Bucky explains about the butterfly and Steve laughs at him.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, buddy,” Bucky says, dryly.

“You know me: a towering pillar of support,” Steve quips.

“Mr. Rogers, are you joining us today?” Bucky’s coach asks, motoring over to the pool and jumping in.

“Not today, sir, but thanks.”

“Then, do you mind not disturbing my swimmer?”

Steve raises his hands, palms up, in surrender and backs off. He goes back over to his notes and puts his earbuds back in. Bucky has always loved watching Steve study. Steve is such a genius really, but he likes hiding it or downplaying it. Probably because he’s afraid of being labeled a nerd at school, but Bucky would beat up anyone who dares.

“James, as heartwarming as it is watching you dote on Mr. Rogers, can I possibly tear your attention away long enough at least to show you the butterfly stroke?” Coach asks, quietly near Bucky’s shoulder.

“Wha–. No, I wasn’t…”

Coach raises his eyebrows in a look that clearly reads “Are you seriously going to lie to my face?”.

Bucky sighs again and turns his back on Steve.

 

They just dumped all their stuff in their room and Steve is stretching out on his bed, waiting for Bucky to go take his shower. They’re both always required to go shower before dinner, because Mrs. Rogers says she hates the smell of wet dog at the dinner table.

“Tonight, at dinner,” Bucky says, just inside the door.

Steve’s eyes reopen and he turns his head slightly to look at Bucky.

“Alright. I got your back.”

“Thanks, Stevie.”

Dinner looms up far too suddenly and Bucky sits at the table practically vibrating with anxiety. His nerves are shot by the time they finish saying grace and Mr. Rogers dishes up for everyone. He knows he should just start. Once he starts, he knows it’ll just come out. He can’t, though. He can’t seem to find the right moment to insert himself into the table banter.

Steve must’ve sensed his self-torture, because he casually says, “Hey, Buck, didn’t you say there was something you wanted to tell Mom and Dad?”

Before he can so much as consider how he’s going to word it, he opens his mouth and blurts: “Mom, Dad – I’m gay.”

There’s a loud clatter as Mr. Rogers drops his fork on the floor. He ducks under the table to retrieve it, but Bucky feels like he’s also using the momentary cover to sort out his emotions.

“Did you just call us “mom” and “dad”?” is what Mrs. Rogers takes away from that little declaration.

“…Is that…okay?” Bucky asks, feeling like he’s going into shock.

Mrs. Rogers bursts into tears. Steve jumps up to put his arms around her. She leans her head into his stomach and cries into his t-shirt. Bucky stares at her bewilderedly. He can’t even look at Mr. Rogers.

“I,” Mr. Rogers starts, but stops to clear his throat. “I think what she’s trying to say is that of course it’s okay: to call us “mom” and “dad” – and, um, and to be gay, son. We love you just the same.”

Now, it’s Bucky’s turn to cry. Steve wipes away the last of their mom’s tears and then walks around the table to hold Bucky the same way he’d held her. Bucky is grateful for his strength. He feels so overwhelmed. He can’t help but wonder if his mom and dad would have approved. He likes to think they would.

“I’m sure your mom and dad wouldn’t have minded, either, Tiger,” Mr. Rogers says and reaches over, from next to Bucky, to lay a comforting hand on his arm.

“How did you know?” Bucky asks, thickly, clinging onto Steve tighter at the mention of his dad’s old nickname for him.

“It’s what I would have wondered, I guess. Your parents were incredible people, Bucky. They had nothing but love for you. Nothing you ever did or said or felt would have made them stop loving you,” Mr. Rogers eulogizes.

Bucky cries harder, but he’s also smiling. Steve holds him tighter. Bucky wishes he could kiss Steve.

 

It’s early. Bucky’s watch reads 2:54 AM. He wonders what woke him, but then he feels it again: a slight weight on his left side. He forces his eyes open all the way and turns his head slightly.

Eucalyptus and spearmint.

 _Steve_.

“Stevie?” Bucky whispers.

“Don’t go to school today,” Steve retorts immediately.

Bucky frowns, his head aching slightly from being awake at this time. He reaches a hand up to the bridge of his nose and pinches it to release some of the tension.

“I can’t just ditch,” he mutters finally.

“No. We’ll play sick for you. I’ll go in and get all the work. You just stay home, okay? Promise me? Please, Buck?” Steve begs him.

“What’s up? Why am I playing sick?” he pushes.

They have double history tomorrow and Fridays are movie days. Last week, they started a documentary on the civil war and Bucky is game to see the rest of it.

“Can you, this once, just trust me? Please?”

Bucky turns entirely, so they’re face to face in the dark. How easy it would be just to move forward a tiny bit, close the inch between them and feel Steve’s mouth against his. Steve will probably never talk to him again. Actually, Steve’ll probably forgive him and say that he loves Bucky, no matter what. He’ll think it was just a lapse in judgement. That Bucky’s coming out had just overwhelmed him.

“I trust you,” Bucky breathes in the darkness.

“I love you, Buck,” Steve says and starts burrowing under the covers.

Bucky lets him, turning onto his back again. They used to share beds all the time as little kids. Steve’s body temperature had been pretty up and down back then, and Bucky had served as a constant source of heat and a watchful eye in the night.

But, this time, Steve isn’t wearing a shirt. Bucky doesn’t sleep with one on, either. So, when Steve presses himself against Bucky’s side, Bucky’s breath hitches in his chest and his heart skips several beats. All he feels is taut, toned muscle and soft skin. Then, he’s also feeling Steve’s breath and most of Steve’s body against his side and all he can manage is biting clean through the insides of his cheeks. He lifts his arm out and drapes it around Steve, who comes even closer.

“I love you, too, Stevie.”

 

Steve doesn’t remember a single day when he’s ever been at school without Bucky. He doesn’t think it’s ever happened in the history of them being friends. So, today he stays close to Jim’s side. They’re being great about it, too. Their hand is warm in his and they’re close to him and constantly engaging him in conversation, which serves as both a distraction and a buffer. At some point, he notices their loose-ish jeans and the fishnets sticking out from underneath them. He tells them they look gorgeous today. They smile their easy, lopsided smile and Steve relaxes all at once.

“What’d you say to convince him?” James asks, lighting a cigarette outside the Starbucks they stopped at for coffee.

They don’t need to say any more than that. It was no exaggeration to have said they’re as much his best friend as Bucky is, even if his friendship with Bucky feels different to his friendship with them. He can’t tell how it feels different, exactly, but he can tell that it does. He chalks it up to them being two completely different people. Bucky is incredibly nervous and insecure by nature, but James is loud and vibrant and rash and unapologetic. Steve reckons he fits in with them, because someone needs to be a complete moron.

“I just asked him to trust me. He said he does, and so he agreed to stay home,” Steve explains as they wander on, to the next bus.

The morning air in the city is cool and smells like exhaust fumes. Sleepy pedestrians trudge to their early-morning destinations. Traffic is already a nightmare, with cars constantly honking at one another and taxi drivers screaming out of their windows. The only thing that would have made this moment better to Steve is if Bucky could’ve been there.  

Instead of holding his hand, James links their arms, so they can hold both their coffee and their cigarette. They’re comfortable against him. He recalls, fondly, waking up next to Bucky this morning. As usual, he’d been nervous and awkward about them being so close together, but Steve had hugged him and gotten up. Before he’d left for the bus stop, he’d knelt next to a sleeping Bucky and brushed his hair off his forehead.

James smirks at something knowingly. Steve resists the urge to ask them at what, because they never answer him, anyway. Instead, he steals their smoke and takes a drag on it. He ends up hacking his lungs up, them doubled over, laughing until their eyes stream and the sound fades from their voice.

“They’re not even strong, Rogers. In fact, they’re the weakest it’s possible to make cigarettes. You asthmatic dork,” they say. They step onto the bus before him, but keep pace with him.

“Can we just never talk about it again?” he asks, following them to their usual standing spot near the back of the bus.

“I can’t make that promise. It was too beautiful a fail to keep to myself. Sorry, Stevie.”

“Eat shit.”

They honk again. He wishes he _had_ hacked his lungs up. That would’ve been less humiliating. They do give him some of their iced water, though, which helps his stinging throat and chest.

At school, they keep a wary eye out for any trouble. Everyone is staring at them, but no one says anything. Steve jumps out of his skin when someone slams their locker door too close to him. Jim rubs soothing circles on the back of his hand.

“He wouldn’t go to my house, would he?” Steve asks, quietly enough that only James can hear him.

“Doubt it. He wants the humiliation to be public. Your house is too far away from the eyes of anyone ‘relevant’,” James head-shrinks their brother.

“So, Bucky’s safe?”

“For today. He might even let it go, over the weekend, but if I hear anything else, I’ll text you,” they say.

Steve doesn’t really feel any more at ease.

The morning passes without incident. Instead of going to study hall, James joins Steve in art class. Miss Hughes, who they call by her first name, Bowie, flips out over James’ stunning watercolor tattoo. James proudly announces that it’d been designed by Steve and he blushes so hard, his ears burn. Bowie beams proudly at her student. She’s also super interested in James and asks a whole bunch of questions Steve personally feels all James’ teachers should ask. James looks overwhelmed, but grateful.

“So, today is a ‘girl’ day?” Bowie asks.

“Yeah. I mean, I woke up with this itch in my ass for fishnets and red lipstick. Plus, Jimmy is sick and, after them, Stevie and I make a cute couple,” James winks at Steve as they say this.

He smiles to himself behind his sketch pad. He can’t say he hasn’t considered it: dating James. They’re gorgeous in this androgynous, grunge, movie character sort of way. They’re also a beautiful person on the inside. But as much as Steve doesn’t mind and is entirely cool with their gender-fluidity, he feels funny about dating male-passing people. Not necessarily bad-funny, but definitely weird. He tries not to think about it too much. Really, he’s just afraid he’ll screw with his own head and say something phobic and hurt his friends.

At lunch time, he and James go eat on the roof. It’s tough going, but they get Steve up there. The tiles up there are hot by then, burning their hands and knees, but they get to their feet fast and run for the shadow of the old bell tower.

Steve’s mom had packed him two sandwiches, fruit roll-ups and a Pepsi. James had packed themself leftover pizza, chocolate M&Ms, a banana and a Dr. Pepper. They trade: Steve swaps out a pastrami and mustard sandwich for a slice of pizza, and half his roll-ups for half James’ M&Ms. Steve is technically lactose intolerant, but the meds have been working so well, the doctor said to test some of his old allergies and see if they still hold out. Besides, who in their right mind says no to M&Ms? James keeps their banana for later, because of their diabetes. Something they and Steve have in common.

From the roof, they can see most of the high school next door, though not much of their own school, which is how they prefer it, really.

“Are you nervous?” James asks, eyes on the tiny, well-defined groups of people on the high school campus.

“Nah. No matter what, I’ll always have you and Bucky. As long as we’re together, there’s nothing they can throw at us that we can’t handle,” he says, turning to James.

They smile and lean their head on Steve’s shoulder. Steve takes their hand again.

Steve has been going to all his classes – also Bucky’s, because they have all the same subjects, save for art – early to notify every teacher of Bucky’s absence today. James helps him down about ten minutes before the end-of-lunch bell is meant to ring and they head inside, Steve to double history and James to Biology and then Geography. They don’t get that far, though. Right outside the entrance is André and three of his friends.

“James, get away from him,” André says, flatly.

“I’d love to see you make me, Dré,” they reply, crossing their arms defiantly.

“I will, Jemmy. Don’t push me,” he threatens.

“Okay, first of all, no you fucking won’t,” Steve intervenes, “and second of all, who the fuck is ‘Jemmy’?”

“Stay out of this, Steve,” James says, their voice suddenly hard. “Go to class. I’ll see you later.”

Steve frowns deeply.

“Are you out of your mind?” Steve asks, stepping up to stand beside them.

“We’re here for you, anyway,” André says. “We hear you’re the reason Bucky’s gay. He had to look after your pansy-ass his entire life and now he thinks he’s in love with you or some shit.”

“That’s not even remotely how it works, you dipshit,” butts in James.

“I will only say this one more time: shut _the fuck up_ , James,” André screams at them.

They jump a little, but Steve is there next to them, pressing his shoulder against theirs.

“That’s not even remotely how it works, you dipshit,” reiterates Steve.

André takes a single step forward – and sucker punches Steve.

“ _What the fuck, André?_ ” James demands, dropping to their haunches to tend to their friend. “ _What in the fuck_ is wrong with you? Why are you such a fucking _jackass_?”

“My whole life I’ve spent watching this little shit be coddled and pampered, and then first _you_ turn queer and now Bucky. I don’t think it’s a coincidence. So, I am finally putting him in his place where his bodyguard can’t protect him.”

James jumps up and clocks André full in the face. As he staggers back, Dennis steps up and gives James an undercut that Steve can _hear_. They fall over Steve and he gets up to get to them, but Dennis shoves him back down. He climbs over Steve and heads to James, fast. As James moves to get up, Dennis kicks them right in the stomach.

“ _DENNIS, THAT’S MY FUCKING SISTER_ ,” André screams at him.

“This freak is no one’s sister,” Dennis says and grabs James by the back of their hair.

Steve kicks his legs out from under him and he goes down, dragging James with him. James pulls free, though, spins around and kicks Dennis right in the face – with their combat boot.

“Are those teeth?” asks Steve, taking a step back from the bloody, white bits on the tarmac.

“One of them is more cavity than tooth,” Jim laughs.

Then, Steve’s being yanked back and off his feet. He hits the ground hard, which winds him. André aims a kick for his ribs. James tries to stop him, but André’s remaining two friends hold them back. Steve hears as much as feels his ribs crack. A scream is wrenched out of him, which winds him even more. A hand fists in the front of his shirt and he’s lifted into a standing position again.

“You fucking pathetic, skinny freak,” André spits in his face.

A last shock of pain goes through Steve before he loses consciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It gets hot and heavy in the next chapter, so stay tuned!!!
> 
> (Hi, hello, sorry! I am not gender-fluid myself, but James is and so I wanted to represent them accurately. I got the pronouns thing wrong at first and had to fix it, but I saw that I missed a few places. They should all be fixed now. If you find any more mistakes anywhere, PLEASE point them out in the comments. Thank you!)


	3. A: Base Motive/Refrain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW//
> 
> Severe violence  
> Homophic slurs  
> Transphobia
> 
>  
> 
> If I promised you Stucky smut next chapter, would you keep reading? This one is long, but important. xx

High school parties are officially Bucky’s preferred stomping ground. They’re always big. You can disappear and reappear quite easily. Everyone thinks they’ve just seen you, so there’s a ton of anonymity. The music is loud enough for him just to pretend to listen to someone.

The best part, however, is the booze. Bucky’s aware he probably sounds like a jock stereotype, but, man, beer is good and people with beer are good and life with beer is good and far easier than life in the real, non-beer world. He’s pretty sure this should be some kind of warning sign, but he’s too busy dancing.

The party is at James’ house. Their dad is out of town for a week and André and Fucked Up Dennis, as they’ve all taken to calling him, managed to score two kegs somewhere. So, they decided to throw a massive party and make it open invite. Bucky is currently heavily grinding on this truly gorgeous guy, a cup of beer in his hand, his slicked back hair in his eyes. The bass on the song drops and the dancing gets extra close – and extra dirty. The other guy puts his hands on Bucky’s hips and gets fully into Bucky’s space. Bucky downs his beer, tosses the cup and puts his arms around the guy’s neck.

He feels a slap on the back and turns his head slightly to see Steve leaving the room for the beer pong table with James, their fingers knotted. Steve shoots him a sly smirk and a thumbs-up. Bucky returns the smirk and then refocuses on his dance partner.

Or tries to. Before he can turn back to face him, the other guy has his mouth on Bucky’s neck. Bucky groans, but it’s entirely drowned out by the music. His knees are basically water, but he’s a swimmer, and so does well in water. When he unlatches from Bucky’s throat, Bucky pulls his dance partner into a heated kiss. The other guy teases Bucky’s lips apart with his tongue. Bucky doesn’t wait to be asked twice. Then, they’re making out and moving to the rhythmic pounding of the music – which is doing nothing for Bucky’s libido – and Gorgeous Guy has his hands under Bucky’s shirt and Bucky can feel his raging hard-on through both their jeans.

“ _BUCKY!_ ”

_Fuck._

He disentangles himself from Gorgeous Guy and gives him an apologetic look, before turning to the source of his name. Immediately to his right, however, is James. Their beanie is slipping off their head and their shirts – the flannel and the t-shirt – are both disheveled. They look desperate. Bucky takes their hand and they turn around immediately to lead Bucky to the trouble.

“Fucking hell, Stevie!” Bucky groans outside. It’s freezing out there, which sobers him up instantly.

A crowd of people has gathered around Steve, all of them in varying degrees of distress. Bucky kneels next to the guy, eyes momentarily caught on the twinkling lights of New York City, as seen from across the Lelands’ pool.

_Must be nice to be rich._

He pulls his friend into a sitting position and then bends him over slightly. Getting a firm grip around his waist, Bucky’s Heimlichs him. A few tries later and Steve is throwing up all over the fancy poolside paving. Bucky keeps Steve’s hair out of his face and Steve’s jacket out of the line of fire. When it’s all out, James comes over with the hose and gets everyone out of the way, so the mess can reach the drain unimpeded.

“Stevie,” Bucky whispers to him.

Steve, exhausted, leans back and against Bucky’s chest.

“I’m okay. I… I didn’t even drink that much. I swear, it was just the bits in the bottom of the beer pong cups…” He trails off. Whether he’s at a loss or just tired is lost on Bucky. A sigh. “I’m sorry, Buck. You were having a good time with that guy. Do you think you can go find him again?”

Steve drags a hand down his face. His skin is super tight and pale around his eyes and mouth. Bucky knows he needs a shot and then his bed. They can’t stay.

“We gotta get you home, Stevie,” Bucky murmurs. He habitually, dutifully, inspects the other boy for any further damage. Everyone else has gone back inside and is dancing to some dumb hip-hop song. The white kids are the funniest. None of them are remotely supple or graceful enough to pull of the dance moves with any kind of believability. Bucky grins to himself.

“It’s not fair. I can get home by myself. One of James’ drivers can take me. I’ll be okay. You go find your, um, friend?”

Bucky chuckles.

“Well, he sure was _friendly_ ,” he confirms, “but he’s just some guy. I’m getting you home and in bed, and that’s that.”

Steve looks guilty as all sin, but gives Bucky a small, grateful smile nonetheless. Bucky hops to his feet and holds out his hand for Steve. When Steve takes it, Bucky pulls on his arm far too hard on purpose and Steve is yanked clear off his feet. He laughs and so does Bucky. They make their way back through the party to the front door.

“Is that Jim?” Steve asks at Bucky’s ear from amongst the dancers.

Bucky follows his line of sight and, sure enough, spots James leaning against the bannister, tongue down the throat of some eighteen-year-old Gerard Way wannabe. Bucky laughs, which he sees Steve is also doing. When they pass James and their conquest, Bucky pulls on the back of Gee Way’s fucking black-on-black Black Parade jacket.

They break apart and James gives them a saucy look.

“They’ll eat you alive, dude. Get out while you still can,” Bucky warns the guy.

“Whatever. I ain’t afraid of no freshman,” is Gee’s response.

Jim rolls their eyes and turns the guy’s face back with two fingers. When he leans in for another kiss, James’ face breaks into a maniacal grin and they KO the bastard. They step over him neatly and head for the front door with Steve and Bucky.

A lull in the music brings temporary silence and they hear someone ask: “Ew. Did Edgar Allan Hoe pass out on bath salts again?”

“ _Nevermore_ – than a Goth bitch on Bud Light and paint fumes,” someone else responds.

They laugh all the way outside.

“Where are you fucks sneaking off to?” James asks, pulling out a cigarette.

“I need to get Goldilocks into bed before he truly does pass out on Bud Light,” Bucky says.

“Want company?” they reply. “This party blows. Too many pretty people.”

“Sure,” says Steve.

James organizes them a car and a driver and they all head to Steve and Bucky’s house. The trip is far, but peaceful. James lets their smoke trail out the window and Steve falls asleep on Bucky’s leg.

At some point, James pins Bucky with a calculating stare. Bucky raises his eyebrows at them, curiously. They shake their head and go back to smoking out the window, the wind sweeping their flat-ironed fringe off their forehead. Bucky holds out his hand and James hands over the cigarette automatically.

At the Rogers’ house, Bucky wakes Steve gently. He sits up, tugging his clothes into place as he does. It hurts Bucky’s heart to see him look so vulnerable in the silvery, smoggy moonlight. The medication has been working for him so well, that he’s been able to pick up a bit on his exercise routine. He’s tall now, the same way Bucky’s tall – like, taller than most other guys their age. He’s still far slimmer than Bucky, but by no means skinny, anymore. When the male dancers from their mom’s studio come over for costume fittings, Bucky always notices how none of them are bulky, but all of them are incredibly strong and muscled and well-defined. That’s Steve now. To Bucky, he’s never been more beautiful.

And Bucky has never been more miserable.

“Do I look like I passed out, drunk, at a party?” Steve asks.

“Nope,” answers Bucky.

“No, but you smell it,” says James, who is a little closer.

Steve’s eyes grow wide and fearful. Their mom would kill them – James, too – if she finds out they’ve been drinking.

She once kicked Jim’s ass into next century for smoking. In her outrage and fear, she’d used Steve as an example of someone who fought every day just to breathe. James had been so hurt that they’d stayed away from the Rogers’ place for a month and had quit smoking for about that long, too. Then, Mr. Leland had come home from a business trip to Saudi Arabia with a new girlfriend and introduced James as his daughter, which had caused them to freak out and set all their girly shit on fire and shave their head. To keep them from hurting themself, Bucky had come to school with a lighter and a pack of smokes and he and Steve had ditched school with Jim the entire day. They’d gone to the little arthouse cinema in the trendier part of Brooklyn to watch vintage horror movies all day.

James runs back to the car and, without prompting, the driver hands James a can of deodorizer. They thank him, and he leaves with a last smile. Jim makes them stand two feet apart with all their limbs outstretched to spray as much of them as possible. Then, they stand and let Bucky spray them, too. Steve unlocks the front door in the meantime.

When they get upstairs, the bedside lamp in their parents’ room goes on. Mrs. Rogers calls to them: “Steve, Bucky, are you two home?”

“Yeah, Mom,” the boys answer in unison.

“Hey, Mrs. R,” Jim greets.

“Hello, Jim. You three sleep sweet, okay?” she says, flicking the lamp back off.

They all trump into the boys’ room. Once there, the kicking off of shoes commences, along with the discarding of most of their clothing. Steve hands James a shirt to sleep in. James sits on the edge of Steve’s bed and gives him his shot. He heads to bed, then, leaving enough space for James to join him later. They always share, because Bucky’s too big now for someone else to fit into his bed with him.

Bucky goes and sits by the window and James joins him, holding out their pack of smokes. Bucky takes one and then the lighter and lights up. James lights up theirs by pressing the tip to the cherry of Bucky’s. The shirt Steve’s given them is one that’s even too big on him, so hangs midway down to James’ knees. In the light of the streetlamp, however, Bucky can’t help but notice all the hard lines that make up their friend. He wonders if Steve has ever considered drawing James. Bucky would if he could.

James looks at him like in the car, again. Like they’re trying to work out something really vexing, but are simultaneously afraid of the answer.

“Are you going to stare at me like a trig problem all night, or can I help you?” Bucky whispers, through the billow of smoke streaming out of his mouth and nose.

“I’m being stupid. Hormonal, probably. Ignore me,” they answer, looking far away again.

“Jim?”

They grin to themself. This makes Bucky grin, too.

“Do you… Jimmy, do you think I’m hot?” they ask. Their skin, washed out by the dingy, distant electrical light mixed with moonlight, takes on a darker tinge. Bucky has never seen James blush before.

The question catches Bucky a little off guard, but not unprepared. James is incredibly good-looking – always has been. They and their brother aren’t identical, but incredibly close to it. To Bucky, James has always far overshadowed André in the looks department, though. Most of the reason for that is just because André is a shitty person, Bucky reasons.

“James Leland, you are absolutely beautiful. You always have been,” Bucky replies, meeting and capturing their gaze.

Bucky doesn’t quite know how it happens, but the next second James is over on his side of the window and kissing him. For all intents and purposes, Jim is a good kisser. Bucky just isn’t attracted to them that way. They realize this fairly quickly and move back to their seat.

“Sorry,” they say, blushing worse than ever. They drop their head, sideways, onto their pulled-up knees and put an arm over their head.

“No! Hey, Jim?” Bucky says, finishing his smoke and handing James the snuffed butt. They put it back in the carton and then add their spent one, too. “Look at me: it’s okay. I get it, believe me. But you never have to feel… _lacking_ , or whatever. You’ll find someone, you’ll see. We both will.”

But James is crying. Bucky gets up and pulls them to him. They come reluctantly, but when they do, they drop their face onto Bucky’s shoulder. They aren’t the same height as the boys, anymore. Jim sobs silently, their body shaking as they cling to Bucky. Eventually, his friend is all cried out and just holds Bucky.

“What’s the matter, Jim?” Bucky murmurs into their hair.

They mutter into Bucky’s chest. When Bucky pulls away to hear them better, they drop their head. Has someone hurt James? Bucky will _murder_ …

“I am a shitty fucking friend, is what’s the matter,” they say, at last.

Bucky frowns deeply.

“One, never. Two, _what_?”

They sigh and let their head roll back to look at Bucky again.

“I have a disgusting, inexplicable crush on our Stevie-boy,” they admit, looking dead inside.

Bucky’s heart plummets to and crashes on the floor. For the first time, Bucky’s feelings for Steve feel genuinely threatened. Why wouldn’t he choose James? Possibly because he’s straight, but James is feminine enough for Steve to tell them when they look pretty. Plus, if there’s anything James has always had an uncomfortable point about, it’s that Steve never swore off guys: he just doesn’t see Bucky that way. Imaginably, this is worse.

On the other hand, James and Steve are his best friends. They’ve all been through everything together. If they end up together, Bucky has to be happy for them. That’s what friends do. They’d do the same for him, when he finally finds a boyfriend.

“What’s so disgusting about it? He’s your best friend. Makes perfect sense to me,” Bucky responds.

James’ eyes grow wide with shock. They stand back from Bucky entirely as if to size him up. They look at him like he’s just lost his mind. He wonders if he has.

“You’re not…mad?”

“No, Jim. Why would I be mad? It’s not like I can blame you. You know how _I_ feel about him. It was only a matter of time before someone else was bound to pick up what he’s putting down,” Bucky says, forcing a smile.

“I… James Buchanan Barnes, the world does not deserve you,” Jim says to him and then wraps him up in a tight hug. Bucky kisses the top of their head. He feels them relax.

After that, he turns his back on Jim getting into Steve’s bed. He’s been strong enough for one night.

 

“Can I have my shirt, please?”

“Fuck no, but thanks for playing.”

“James…”

“Stevie…”

He jumps at them and they both go down, him on top of them. Their hands find Steve’s sides immediately, gripping him to them as they kiss. Steve’s fingers knot in James’ hair, damp from sweat. He kisses along their jaw to their neck, his teeth nicking the skin near their jugular. They dig their nails into Steve’s hips as they gasp. Their kissing is hot and messy. Steve pulls away a little for air at some point, and James takes the chance to suck hickeys onto Steve’s chest. One near his collarbone makes him rut forward, unbidden. James moans against him and dig their nails in deeper.

Footsteps sound up from down the hall. A second later, they’re both up and with their backs to the shower room door.

“Any idea where Bucky’s at today?” Jim asks, as they get ready to leave.

“Your guess is as good as mine. I feel like I haven’t seen him in a month. We don’t even talk at home, anymore,” Steve says, sounding sad.

If James looks drawn and guilty, Steve doesn’t notice.

He pulls a pale blue t-shirt over his head, which is about two sizes too small and, therefore, skintight. With the way their finances are going lately, though, his mom can’t afford to buy him new clothes. James changes into equally tight, high-waist black jeans, a cropped tank top and boots. Before stepping out, they quickly reapply their cherry red lipstick and eyeliner. Behind them, a guy gets out of one of the showers.

“You can’t be in here,” he says to Jim, but still checks them out.

“Please. My dick is bigger than yours,” they retaliate, grab their black, leather duffle and head for the door.

“Probably true,” Steve adds when the guy looks to him for help.

Outside, they breathe in the stale, smog-filled New York air. Jim whips out their phone to call for a driver, but Steve reasons they could probably take a bus. Jim says they thought the two of them could go for food before heading back to Jim’s place.

“I, um… I can’t afford it, Jim. We’re really struggling to make ends meet at home. My meds are too expensive. Some other time, though. I’ll see you tonight,” Steve says, lacing his fingers with theirs for a minute.

“I know, Steve. It was going to be my treat. No worries, dude. Also, if your family is in dire straits, we can always help you out. Money is literally all my dad has,” they offer, earnestly.

But Steve is already shaking his head. He can’t take their money like that. That’s why he’s doing paintings for their house, so he can earn the money. He won’t take handouts. He’s not a charity case and he isn’t any one else’s responsibility besides his own and his family’s.

“We’ll be okay. This is why I’m painting for you guys, so I can pay may parents back for the medication. I’m hoping I’ll do a good enough job that your dad would be willing to recommend me to some of his business associates.”

“Well, I’ve seen André’s, and you managed to make that jalapeño popper look human. So, I’d say you have nothing to worry about,” James assures, wrapping themself around Steve’s right arm. “As for food, it’s still on me. Almond milk smoothies?”

Steve rolls his eyes, but smiles all the same.

“Sure. Sounds really good.”

“Sick. Georgia will be here any minute. She wasn’t far when I texted her.”

“We should get her a smoothie, too. She dies for that freezo berry shit,” Steve remembers.

“Do you remember that Saturday I made us smoothies at home and we made her a berry freezo? I totally saw her spike it with gin. What a fucking legend,” Jim recounts, laughing.

“Good ole Georgia.”

Their favorite smoothie place is in the Central Park area. Georgia finds a luckier than lucky parking spot right by the shop and leaves her hat on the seat next to her before getting out. She opens for them, smiling as usual. Georgia isn’t necessarily a perpetually sunny person, but Steve reckons Mr. Leland did them both a service when he assigned Georgia to James. The two of them are more like friends than employer and employee. G hangs out with them all the time when Steve comes to visit. Steve’s tried telling Bucky about her, but he doesn’t really seem all that interested in anything Steve has to say anymore.

“Two banana-whey zingers, one with kale and one with peanut butter, and a berry freezo without banana, thanks,” James orders, cash ready.

After they get their drinks, they head to the park to hang out with Georgia.

Summer in the city isn’t pleasant, but it’s not so bad when the park has waterslides and your significant other has a massive pool. Steve’s gotten a tan and the chlorine and sunshine has bleached his hair even blonder. Even the darker streaks in James’ hair have turned coppery.

Also, André and Fucked Up Dennis leave them mostly alone, because they know they’ll get shit from the rest of the team for going after Steve. Steve plays football now. He tried out in his freshman year, but didn’t get in for so many reasons. He trained and practiced all summer with Bucky, back when they still talked, and by sophomore year, he was beyond ready for try-outs. Coach said he was an immediate first pick. He’s fast and agile and nimble. Exactly what they needed for a running back.

As for James, they’ve been dancing at Steve’s mom’s studio. Mrs. Rogers says they’re a natural. They’d been heartbroken when their first ever recital had come up at exactly the same time as their top surgery. The other dancers had all fallen in love with James so fast that they’d moved the recital out two months, so they could heal. They’d all gone with Steve, Bucky and Mrs. Rogers to visit Jim in hospital.

“I didn’t know you were doing ballet!” Georgia calls at James as they plié and lean into a penché, to the music of a string quartet playing to the left of the path. They launch into a few impromptu moves.

“I mean, whether you are or aren’t, that is flawless,” Steve assesses, truthfully. “Mom would be proud.”

“Thank you, thank you,” they say, as other nearby pedestrians who gathered around to watch, clap for them. “But, please, give it up for the band.”

The musicians smile and nod their heads gratefully.

The rest of the afternoon blurs by. Georgia takes them home, blaring All Time Low through the car’s sound system. They all scream along to _Six Feet Under the Stars_ and James, true to form, head-bangs like there’s no tomorrow. Georgia rocks out in her seat. By the time they get to the house, they’re all hoarse and exhausted.

As Steve walks into the foyer of James’ house, a line from one of the songs they’d listened runs through his head: _“Manage me, I’m a mess…”_

He heads straight for the room they’ve allocated him to paint in, meaning to get some work done before dinner. Tonight is a big deal for the family and James had gotten a suit tailored for him, which he couldn’t but accept, because it won’t fit anyone else. He’s almost done with the twins’ paintings. He just has to finish some of the detail on his painting of James. Mr. Leland and Hallie’s painting can wait another month. He needs them to sit for it, anyway. The twins had to sit for theirs. He smirks at the memory of André being given hell by Fucked up Dennis for sitting like he has a stick up his ass for an hour.

He strips out of his civvies and changes into his painting dungarees, not bothering to put a shirt on underneath. What he’s gone for is an entirely black background with watercolor-esque relief making up the subject of the painting. Not for the first time, he’s childlike happy about how many colors make up James’ hair and eyes and even their skin, what with their freckles. Speaking of those suckers, they were a pain to paint, but he’s pretty sure he got them right. For their painting, though, instead of going with how he sees them, he’d asked James to describe how they see themself. He’d then drawn that as they spoke. Once they were happy with Steve’s sketch, they’d let Steve paint it.

Before continuing, he walks over to the computer system embedded into the wall in a small box by the door and sets it so the music plays only in this room and plays only Nirvana. Then, he gets to work. As time wears on, he considers setting the painting on fire more than a couple times. By the time he finishes, the sun has long set and he is covered nearly head to toe in paint. He even tastes some of it. He feels like he’s reached that point of absolutely hating everything about his work – which means it is ready to be given away. He can no longer have an unbiased opinion of it.

The door starts opening and he spots it just in time to toss his palette aside and dash for it. It’s André, though. He actually looks really decent in his tux, his unruly curls tamed for once.

“James says you have to get ready. Dinner’s in half…an hour…” he trails off, taking in Steve’s paint-dipped look. “I’ll stall, but still hurry. Your suit is on my bed. Choose a cologne, too, would you? I left a few on my dresser.”

Steve nods. “Thanks.”

Showering is made about a thousand times more effective by the Lelands having adjustable water pressure and jets. Most of the paint is washed away, leaving very little for him to scrub. The biggest challenge is his hair, but he steals some of André’s purple shampoo and that works wonders. After, he gets dressed in a flash and heads for the dresser. About five bottles are lined up for him to choose from, but one has a note underneath it. Steve opens it.

“I know I said pick one, but I really think this one would work great for you. If you like it, just keep it.” – A.

Steve gives that bottle, a deep red one that makes its contents look like blood, a whiff. It smells absolutely amazing. To Steve, it smells like money and prestige. He spritzes some on and rubs it in a little. Before he heads back to his makeshift studio, he checks himself over in the full-length mirror. He is not exaggerating when he says he almost doesn’t recognize himself. He just wishes he could do something about his hair. It’s just hanging next to his face, making him look like what he is: a scruffy, struggling artist. He pulls out his phone and texts André a 911.

“You didn’t break anything, did you?” he asks, bursting into the room less than a minute later. His hair is slightly disheveled from running, but he smooths it back into place easily.

“How do you do that?” Steve asks, eyeing his hair.

“Is that your 911? Your hair? Because I can totally see it,” André hits back, but not meanly.

“Just help me. I can’t go out in this Gucci suit, or whatever–”

“Armani. James would never choose Gucci-anything. Not after the cocktail-dress incident.”

“Just fix my hair, would you?”

André leaves for his en suite immediately and reappears a second later with a bottle, a small tub and a fine-tooth comb. He makes Steve sit down on his bed, facing him. A dab of the contents of the tiny tub with the pretentious French name, worked through his hair. Then, the comb, smoothing his hair back and away from his face. Finally, he gets a headful of the bottle sprayed over him. A little more comb, and then André steps back and gestures for him to look in the mirror.

Steve gasps. He looks like he could _model_ for Armani right now. When André comes back out, he stops in all four tracks, eyeing Steve in a way that Steve has never seen him look at anyone. Maybe Bucky, but only because James pointed it out to him in the hall once when André was watching Bucky head to class.

“Good, right?” Steve asks, eyes wide.

“Yeah,” André says, swallowing. “G-good.” He shakes himself and heads for the door.

Steve follows. Going by the studio, he grabs the paintings and near-runs to the dining room. All that stops him is his fear of breaking his expensive, admittedly super comfortable, Italian leather shoes. Even his fucking socks are designer. When he rounds the last bend before the hallway opens up into the living area, he almost drops his artworks. As it is, his mouth drops open.

Never before have James and André looked more like twins. Both kitted out in damn-near identical tuxes, the only differences being that James’ jacket-sleeves are a little more fitted and they chose to wear it cuffed, just under their elbow, and the fact that André is wearing a stylishly thin tie and James is wearing their shirt unbuttoned to midway down their chest. Both of their hair is smooth, and pulled away from their faces. James isn’t wearing any makeup, which is a stunning change, honestly. Even James’ nose-ring appears to _make_ their look. They have never looked so stunning.

“Stevie?” they say, and Steve realizes they have a similarly awed expression.

“Jim, you look stunning,” he manages.

“Um… So do you? What did you do to your hair?” they ask, coming closer, hands in their pockets.

“I did it for him. Doesn’t he look like a catalogue model?” André asks, smiling proudly.

Mr. Leland gives him a look. He doesn’t see it, eyes on James and Steve.

“Remind me to take photos of you later. Hallie, as you know, is a model. She might be able to get you a few shoots. If you won’t take our money, let us at least help you improve you circumstances?” James says, half-pleading, quietly.

“Thanks, Jim. Can I give you and André your gifts now? Happy birthday, by the way,” Steve says, leaning in between his paintings to kiss them.

They smile as the two of them kiss. Then, they move back to their family. Steve puts down a covered easel in front of each twin and pulls the tarps off. Their reactions are near-identical masks of surprise. The first to look back up is André. He steps around his portrait carefully, so as not to knock it off. Then, he walks over to Steve and pulls him into a hug.

“Thank you so much, dude. This is seriously the best gift I’ve ever gotten,” he says near Steve’s ear, standing slightly on tiptoes to reach. He’s slightly taller than James, but not much. Maybe an inch?

“I’m glad you like it. Dennis gave you hell enough for it,” Steve replies, hugging him back.

“Dennis gives everyone hell, because he has no discernible talents of his own. The other day, he called Mr. Oakley a “fucking nerd” for understanding trig when the whole class was lost – he called the math teacher a nerd for getting trig. I don’t even know why I’m friends with him anymore.”

Steve is laughing. James replaces their brother in Steve’s arms, a radiant smile on their face. Their hug has far more abandon to it, which puts Steve far more at ease. He can feel Mr. Leland burning holes into him and André in turn with his eyes. Steve feels sorry for such stuffy, conservative people. He and Bucky used to hug all the time. So what if boys hugged? It’s better than them beating the living shit out of one another other.

The rest of the evening is pretty enjoyable, except for Mr. Leland and Hallie’s insistence on misgendering James. Even André’s grown up enough to respect his sibling. The cherry on top of a good evening is when Hallie actually invites her agent over for coffee and cake. He gives Steve one look and asks him why he hasn’t signed on for modeling years ago. Steve replies that he was a skinny, sickly, growth-stunted freckle on the face of the earth years ago. The agent laughs, but has James take some glossies all the same.

That night, James begs Steve to stay over, but Mr. Leland all but picks him up and tosses him out the door. Also, they have the team run every Saturday morning this summer – at the crack of dawn, no less, which isn’t far off. School is closer from the city, anyway. The Lelands live just outside city limits on a hill overlooking the never-ending ocean of light-pollution that is New York City. He thanks them, but has Georgia drive him home. James takes the drive with them. As they leave the driveway, James conspicuously puts up the visor, cutting the backseat off from the front.

“As gorgeous as my painting is, I was kinda hoping you’d stay for a different reason,” James murmurs, leaning into Steve.

“Man, believe me, I wanted to. Your dad scares the crap outta me,” he confesses.

“Understandable. Thankfully, this is a long drive.” As James says this, Georgia turns the radio up. The music drowns out everything except for Jim’s fingers nimbly undoing Steve’s tie.

 _Oh, boy_.

When they finally pull up in front of Steve’s house, he’ll admit only to himself that he’s had maybe five orgasms. Possibly more, but definitely not less. He doesn’t know what he was expecting from his first time, but it wasn’t this. His entire body feels like rubber and his head is stuffed with cotton. Every inch of him aches in the best way. He can’t stop kissing James. He’s shamelessly addicted to the way their muscles pull taut when they exert themself under his touch. Through the front door, after kissing James goodnight, he’s shaking and he can’t stop – doesn’t want to stop. He’s simultaneously exhausted and utterly energized. It’s like every kiss, every touch, every thrust, every moan – were shots of caffeine injected straight into his bloodstream. Steve doesn’t think this was Jim’s first time, but he hopes he was okay, at least. He was too awkward to ask.

“Bucky? It’s 3 AM,” he says, upon entering his room and finding Bucky only just getting ready for bed. By the looks of things, Bucky must’ve been someplace swanky, too, because he’s changing out of an all-black suit.

“I can tell the time, Steve, but thanks,” Bucky quips, sounding more tired than anything. He drops his unbuttoned dress shirt onto the bed. Steve tries not to gawk conspicuously, but he can’t help but stare. Bucky is covered in much the same as Steve: hickeys, scratches, finger-shaped bruises. This, combined with his now well-defined torso, makes him look like a high-end pornstar – not those fake ones who make sex look like a job, but the ones who have just as much in front of the camera as off.

“Hot date?” Steve asks, dropping his gaze and getting ready for bed, too.

“Sure,” is his response.

Steve sighs, sadly.

“Buck, what happened between us? It’s like one day we were fine, and the next you just stopped hanging out with us. Then, we stopped talking altogether. Now, I don’t even know what goes on in your life anymore. I feel like I’m sharing a room with a stranger.”

Steve’s face is a mask of sadness and confusion. Bucky wants to cry his eyes out and punch him in the face at the same time. He can never tell Steve or James that he stopped hanging out with them, because it’s too painful to see his two best friends so happy together. It kills him to see how well they fit. It made him want to die when Steve stopped leaning on him for comfort and James took over taking care of him from Bucky. He had to hide his fucked up hand for a week after punching a mirror when he walked in on the two of them furiously making out on James’ bed at another one of the Leland Manor Parties, as they’re known. It’s easier being without them. He’s made other friends and he has a job now, as a valet at one of the best hotels in the city.

“You never hear of friends growing apart, Stevie? You have your life, I have mine. We’re still brothers, though. So, how separate can we really be?” he drones, turning his back on Steve, but not before catching sight of him without a shirt. He looks like Bucky. Probably he and James finally went at it tonight. Or maybe they’ve _been_ going at it. Who knows?

“We don’t feel like brothers,” Steve mutters in response, but Bucky pretends not to hear him.

_No, we don’t._

After a while, Steve tries again. “We missed you at the twins’ birthday dinner tonight. James actually asked how you were doing.”

“Did they really?” he barrels on without waiting for an answer. “I wouldn’t have been able to make it. I was working.”

He hears Steve stiffen, most probably wondering what work Bucky could possibly be doing that leaves him looking well-done.

“I, uh, didn’t know you had a job. It pay well?”

“Mm-hm. Hundred a shift, plus a free meal.”

Now, Steve’s probably frowning. Bucky hates how well he knows the twerp.

“What…exactly…is this job?” he asks, going back to undressing, by the sounds of it.

“I valet at the Plaza.”

“Only valet?”

He turns back around. “What’s with the twenty questions? Yes, I only valet and I do it at the Plaza and it’s a fine job. Someone needs to bring in money for your fucking medication or those of us who aren’t getting designer suits and a five-course meal every other night will die of starvation and poverty.”

Steve’s face hardens in shock. He’s frozen midway through taking off his jacket, looking at Bucky like he’s never seen him before in his life. Instead of continuing to get undressed when he finally manages to move, he walks around his bed to Bucky. Bucky expects to be pulled out of bed and clocked in the face.

“Is it really that bad?” the other boy asks, instead, in a small voice.

Bucky sighs now, dropping his head for a moment. When he looks back up it’s with a resolve to push through. There’s no backing out now. Not after what he said.

“Yes. Twice this week, while you were at the Lelands, we had coffee for breakfast and lunch. There wasn’t anything else in the house. We couldn’t even afford to go the corner store to buy bread.”

Steve looks unsteady on his feet. Strangely, Bucky’s usual instinct to protect him from all harm, fails him now. He doesn’t care how much Steve hurts. In fact, he hopes Steve hurts even half as much as he does every damn day.

“But…” Steve swallows once. “What about your swimming, Buck? You can’t stay fit and healthy with no food in your system.”

“I quit swimming five months ago. We can’t afford to pay for it anymore. Did you know James has been floating your gym membership? I’ve been staying fit by running and working out with whatever I could haul home from my parents’ storage unit,” he recounts.

For the first time since they went to high school together, after that fight where Dennis and André nearly killed him and James, Steve is crying. He looks so pained and sad in that moment that Bucky utterly and completely despises himself for what he’s doing. However, he utterly and completely despises himself on most days, without any kind of prompt. So, he gets over it pretty quickly.

Suddenly, Steve’s face changes. The tears are still falling, but it’s like he just remembered that heaven exists or something. He swipes at his face.

“Bucky, it’s okay. I can help out soon. I got a job tonight!”

“As what?” he drones, derisively. “The Lelands’ pool boy?”

Steve looks a little hurt, but continues: “Hallie’s agent is getting me into the new Armani Youth campaign. Models pay tons! We’ll be out of our crisis in no time!”

At this, Bucky sits up, throwing the covers off him, so he’s only covered by his pajama bottoms. He gets to his feet slowly, his gaze heavy enough to crush Steve where he stands.

““Our crisis”?” he sneers, uglier than he’s even sneered before. Maybe not as ugly as that day at the trainyard a million years ago when Steve came to tell him his parents were dead, but up there. Somehow, this level of hatred is reserved for Steve Rogers alone. “ _You have no fucking idea what you’re talking about_. You swan out of this house every day to your rich partner who pays for every-fucking-thing you show the slightest bit of interest in. You breeze through school like it’s some kind of formality to you. What, the Lelands offer to send you to Yale? Dartmouth? _Fucking Princeton_? Probably NYU. I hear they have a great art program. That way, you and James can be together when Daddy _buys_ their way into fucking Julliard. Meanwhile, us peasants have to give up on our dreams, because to normal people dreams cost money. Did you know I qualified for the _Olympics_ , Steve? Do you know Mom ditched a day’s worth of classes – A DAY’S WORTH OF PAY – so she and Dad could drive me all the way to _Pennsyl_ - _fucking_ - _vania_ to compete? NO, YOU DON’T. You were off laser-tagging with Dylan and Cole Sprouse! On our way back to the car after the qualifier – we had to park in some dodgy-ass area where there was free parking and that was two and a half _miles_ away – we were _mugged_. Dad and I had to fight off some fuck with A KNIFE. Thankfully, we managed, or we wouldn’t have had gas to get home! Now, _look me in the fucking eye and tell me again how this is OUR fucking crisis_. You’ve never known crisis a day in your fucking life, you self-absorbed, ignorant, naïve, mooching pretty boy!”

He’s breathing so hard by the end, he thinks he might wind himself and pass out. The bedroom door opens and their mom peeks in, concern etched into every line of her body. Bucky can’t take it. He can’t do this. He redresses, but this time from the clothes he keeps in a bag in the top of his closet. Out comes a pair of tight jeans, a pair of steel-toe boots, a black leather jacket. He smells his dad on every item, hating himself more intensely than ever for running off the way he had that day.

“Bucky, sweetie, where are you going? It’s almost 4 AM. You can’t go out now,” their mom tries to talk him down.

He isn’t having it, though. Not anymore. He’s tired of being everyone’s fucking enabler. He’s so fucking tired of caring about everyone, but no one caring about him. He’s had enough. He’s done.

“Bucky, no. Stay. I’ll go. I’ll call Ji–”

“Get _the fuck_ out of my way, Steve, or your next trip to hospital is fucking booked, I swear to God,” Bucky say, loathing coming off him in waves.

Steve doesn’t step aside. He stares Bucky down, instead. Without so much as a thought, he shoves Steve to the right like he weighs nothing. He lands on his bed, but almost rolls off. Bucky doesn’t see this. He’s already pushed past his crying mother and out into the warm night.

 

Things have never been better for Bucky. All is well at home. Better than normal, actually. They have money now – decent amounts of it. Steve’s modeling and art are bringing in bucket-loads and Bucky’s night-manager position at the Plaza is presently an income they don’t really need, but he’s not quitting anytime soon. He gets free use of the hotel gym and pool, free meals upon request and full use of the bar – among other things.

He’s also back to hanging out with Steve and the twins. Instead of letting Steve and James together eat him alive, he’s getting out there and keeping his mind sufficiently occupied. His grades are up and he’s fitter than ever. Their parents are happy and the boys are both are on decent diets. Bucky doesn’t think he’s ever seen their mom as happy as she was when he and Steve had brought home new dance shoes for her. Their current project is remodeling their dad’s workshop – by actually building him one. He’s using the garage at the moment, but they need to lock up the family car and Bucky’s inherited convertible. So, on weekends Steve, Bucky, James and André build the wooden workshop in the backyard. Bucky had been surprised to see just how eager James and André had been to get their hands dirty. Not so spoilt after all, he came to realize.

“Hey, Leland, as far as I know, the guy is supposed to do the choking. Unless you’re choking her, too,” a senior calls to André in the hallway. André tugs at the collar of his shirt, looking up apprehensively. He and Bucky lock eyes and Bucky brushes by him on his way to math. Inconspicuously, André passes off a note to Bucky. He crumples it in his hand to keep it invisible, making no move to acknowledge André in the slightest.

Outside math, Steve is leaning against the wall by the door. He smiles when he sees Bucky and Bucky smiles back, as always squashing down that tiny twinge of “fuck, you’re beautiful” that flares up in him whenever he sees his best friend. He’s getting better and better at it, which is mildly depressing – okay, incredibly depressing, but he’s decided depression can wait its damn turn. He has enough time for being depressed as shit at night after work.

“Were they talking to André back there?” Steve asks, following Bucky to their desks.

“Yeah. Seems he’s doing the girlfriend thing wrong. I don’t know, man. I always saw him as more of a bottom, anyway,” Bucky smirks.

“I won’t lie: same. Why do you think he won’t tell us who she is? Jim and I think it’s because she’s a MILF into BDSM,” Steve theorizes.

“Knowing André, I wouldn’t expect any different.”

When Mr. Oakley, a rotund man with a rapidly balding head and thick-framed glasses, walks in and dumps his portly briefcase on the desk, the class abruptly falls silent and a gloom singular to math settles over the room. Steve faces the front, Bucky in the desk behind him. This worked for as long as Steve was still shorter than Bucky and was farsighted. Now, Bucky has to look around Steve to see the board and Steve wears contacts that his agent (also Hallie’s agent) sponsored.

When everyone looks good and focused, Bucky pulls out André’s note.

“Equipment room at lunch?” it read.

He stuffs it into his pocket hastily. Good thing, too, because Mr. Oakley’s favorite form if torture is calling people forward to solve problems on the board – and today Bucky and Steve are his victims. Bucky straightens out his clothes nervously.

“This is math, Mr. Barnes, not a party at the Lelands’. I’m sure the girls in this class will forgive you for not looking like a teen heartthrob while doing calculus,” Mr. Oakley says.

Bucky rolls his eyes. Steve frowns at him. Bucky sticks his tongue out where the teacher can’t see him and Steve smiles.

“Something funny, you two?” Mr. Oakley asks.

“I just don’t think it’s the girls Bucky’s worried about, sir,” someone says from the back of the class.

Bucky’s smile widens as he starts in on his math problem. About three minutes later, he and Steve finish their problems at the same time. Out of habit, they swap places and check each other’s work before heading back to their seats. Mr. Oakley glares at Bucky, which throws Bucky entirely off-guard, and he stops dead in his tracks. Steve walks into him.

“Wha…”

“Something the matter, sir?” Bucky asks the teacher, frowning.

“I think you need to come with me to the principal’s office,” he responds, getting up from his precarious perch on the desktop of one of the students. He always goes and sits there when someone else is busy on the board and that poor desk doesn’t look like it can take much more.

“Have I done something wrong?” Bucky presses, not moving. Beside him, Steve is glaring the teacher down.

But the teacher only gets up and leaves the room, door slamming back against the edge of the desk he was sitting on. Gary Aimes jumps back in his seat on impact.

Bucky gives Steve an odd look, but packs his stuff and makes to leave.

“Hey, Bucky!” one of the other kids calls to him. “Mr. Oakley is a homophobe. Don’t take his shit.”

Bucky makes eye contact and nods. Steve packs up his stuff, too.

“Steve, no. Don’t get in trouble,” Bucky says to him under his breath.

“Oh, shut up and go,” Steve says, like Bucky just made the stupidest comment ever.

The two of them trump out of the class, to the office. Once there, the secretary stops them with her hand. She’s on the phone with someone. Pretty soon, they realize it’s their parents.

“Yes, Mr. Rogers. Thank you. He’s here with me now. Yes, with Steve. See you soon, sir. Okay, bye!” she places the phone back in the cradle and looks up at them both. “You two can take a seat. Your father will be here soon enough.”

“Miss Huckley, what is this about, exactly?” Bucky asks, nerves eating him alive.

“Well, as far as I can tell, Mr. Oakley wants you out of his class, son. Heaven knows what you did to upset the man. I haven’t seen him this worked up since Obama became president,” she says.

Bucky looks drawn and a little sick. Steve puts his hand on Bucky’s shoulder and pulls him back to the chairs in the waiting area. When they’re seated, and their backpacks discarded, Steve tries to hold Bucky’s hand, but he pulls away. He sits back in his chair and stares at a point away from Steve. Steve changes tactics.

“Buck, you know Dad won’t let them get to you. It’ll be fine. Mr. Oakley is bang out of line.”

Bucky does not acknowledge that Steve even spoke. He’s too busy trying not to cry his eyes out. The last thing he wants is for this asshole to see him weak. Steve’s right about one thing: their dad won’t stand for this. No way in hell. Mr. and Mrs. Rogers would sooner die than let anything happen to their kids.

Through the door to Principal Howard’s office, they can hear yelling, but no specifics are discernible. It makes Bucky anxious all the same. The only time there’s ever been yelling where he’s involved was the day Steve told him about his parents and that night, a year ago, when Bucky left for a week to sort out his shit. He can’t stand yelling. It freaks him out entirely. Automatically, he moves to reach out to Steve, but stops himself just in time. He can’t let himself go back there. He takes care of himself now. He doesn’t need anybody – especially Steve. They’re friends, brothers, and he won’t let anything make him feel any different. Never again.

They wait maybe another 45 minutes for Mr. Rogers to get there. Their school is a pretty decent one in the city center. It’s always been out of the Rogers’ price range, but they wanted to give Steve all the opportunities they possibly could. When he finally gets to them, his sons are in varying degrees of worry: Steve is staring sadly at Bucky and Bucky looks like he’d like nothing more than to throw up.

“Boys?”

Both their heads snap up to him. He heads over to them quickly, sitting himself across from them on the edge of the coffee table. He tries to will some calm into Bucky with the sheer force of his gaze, but Bucky possibly goes a few shades paler.

“Buck, if you need the bathroom, you go now, okay? I brought some of your meds from home,” Mr. Rogers says to him, reaching out a hand. Bucky takes it and lets out a breath he hadn’t been aware he was holding. “Stevie, you doing okay?”

“I’m fine, Dad. You just worry about Bucky, okay? I just didn’t want him to sit here alone,” Steve says, looking his friend over.

Suddenly, Bucky gasps brokenly.

“Oookay. It’s okay, Buck. Steve, go get him a bucket. Run!” their dad orders.

Steve’s gone in a flash. Bucky’s hearing is the first to go: everything sounds like he’s hearing it from underwater. His heartbeat pounds itself senseless against his ribcage – not necessarily fast, just hard. He can’t get enough air into his lungs, no matter how hard he tries. The bile is scorching its way up his throat. Right as he’s about to lose his shit, a bucket is shoved into his hands. He lets it all out, then. He almost chokes, because he’s still not getting enough oxygen.

“What’s going on out here?” Bucky can just make out through his pointless panting gasps.

“He’s having a panic attack, Principal. Can you give us a minute?” their dad says, handing the bucket off to Steve.

“Bucky, will you let me help you? You need to breathe. You’re going to gas yourself,” Steve says quietly enough for only Bucky to hear.

It hurts so much. Everything, but especially his violently clenching chest. Every choked breath is like a knife between his ribs. He just wants to be left alone. It’ll go away if he waits it out. Why can’t he just be left alone?

“You’re turning blue, Bucky. Hey, you’re suffocating. Please, let me help you? I can do it. I’ve seen Mom do it,” Steve begs. Then, “Can all of you give us a minute? He’s scared out of his mind. We’ll come to you. Just leave!”

When Bucky opens his eyes, everything is a blur, but he can’t make out the figures of their dad, Principal Howard and Mr. Oakley anymore. A hectic lance of pain through his chest has him doubling over, rolling onto the floor. With the near-non-existent oxygen in his lungs, he manages a weak whimper – and then the tears come. It hurts too much. He can’t take it anymore. No more. Please?

“St-evie,” he manages. He forces one painfully contracting arm to reach out to his friend, wherever he is.

“I’m right here, Buck. Can I help now?” Steve asks, his hand on the side of Bucky’s face.

“Please…” he whispers.

The next moment is the worst of Bucky’s life.

Steve leans over, opens Bucky’s mouth and presses their lips together to breathe some air down Bucky’s throat. Immediately, his throat starts opening up. Steve blows several more lungsful of air into Bucky. Bucky does not stop crying the entire time.

“Bucky?!” someone calls. It’s James. They and André come jogging up to them and drop to their knees at Bucky’s feet.

“What’s going on?” André asks, looking pale as a ghost. He’s raking Bucky over desperately.

“Stevie?” Bucky repeats. Steve helps him into a sitting position. Bucky leans heavily against Steve’s chest. Trying to get a grip on himself. He wishes the twins weren’t here, but he knows they’re only trying to support him. He also knows he’s nowhere near out of the woods. He clumsily pushes up his shirt sleeve and holds his left arm out to Steve. Without any further prompting, Steve jams the prepped needle into the crook of Bucky’s elbow and shoves the plunger down. The burn of the medication entering his bloodstream is like a tonic.

Steve quickly explains the situation, thankfully not going into specifics about Bucky’s panic attack. Bucky doesn’t think it’ll ever stop haunting him. Another fucking nail in the coffin of his feelings for Steve. He hates everything at this moment.

“Can you stand yet?” Steve asks him.

He nods and gets to his feet. André helps steady him. The bell rings again, signaling the end of lunch. Bucky sends the twins back to class. There’s no need for them to miss work on his account. Jim hugs him and kisses his cheek, then they wrap their arms around Steve. André gives Bucky a careful look. Deciding “fuck it”, Bucky pulls André into a fierce embrace. André buries his face in Bucky’s chest, but only for a second. Then, Steve is heading for the office and Bucky’s following him and André is leaving with James.

It’s about as bad as Bucky imagined – except that he has a surprising ally in the principal. It basically comes down to Oakley getting the boot and his last salary going to Bucky, for emotional damages. They’re in inner-city New York: there’s no homophobia and racism and other bullshit of that kind there. Oakley has until the end of the school day to clear out, or the school presses charges. He also has to formally apologize to Bucky.

“Over my dead body,” is Oakley’s response to that last demand.

Before anyone can stop him, Steve is on him, hand fisted in the front of Oakley’s shirt.

“That can be arranged, you sick sonofabitch,” Steve says through clenched teeth.

“Steve, don’t hit him. Otherwise all of this was for nothing,” Mr. Rogers says, sounding reasonable instead of reprimanding.

Steve shoves him in the chest before he lets go and Oakley’s chair almost tips backwards, but he regains his balance at the last minute.

When they finally step out of the office and head back to class, which for Steve is art and for Bucky is a free track, Steve walks Bucky to his study hall. On their way, he takes Bucky’s hand firmly in his and doesn’t let go. Bucky lets himself be comforted. Panic attacks always take so much out of him. He doesn’t have the energy to fight. Depression can take him now. He’s beyond caring.

Outside study hall, Steve looks Bucky dead in the eye.

“Are you okay? I can stay with you a little longer. Bowie’ll understand,” he asks.

Unbidden, the feel of Steve’s lips against his comes to him again. He has to restrain himself, with monumental effort, from wincing. He shakes his head.

“I’ll be alright, Stevie. You get to class. Don’t you still have that final grade assignment of yours to finish? The exhibition is next week and Mom invited the entire dance class again,” Bucky says.

Steve sighs loudly. “Did she really?”

“I helped her with the mass text yesterday. Someone responded to the group to ask if they could borrow clothes from someone. They don’t have anything nice enough. James is having another Armani something made for them, I fucking swear,” Bucky says with a smirk.

“Sounds like Jim.” Steve pulls him into a hug.

Bucky hugs him back fiercely, promising himself this is the last time – and knowing that’s a lie.

 

The next day, a Saturday, Bucky is on his way home with André. James and Steve were going on a date. For Bucky’s own sanity, he hadn’t said anything when James had come out looking like Billie Joe Armstrong. Though, he and André had shared a look when Steve had said that they couldn’t go out anymore, because _he_ was supposed to be the hot boyfriend. That’s when André had invited Bucky over for video games at the Lelands’. He’d run upstairs to pack a bag.

Listen, James by no means upstaged Steve. James is still their usual, emo/punk self. Steve’s vibe is pastel. He came into his own and now he wears soft colors all the time and no one says shit about it, because he’ll kick their ass – or James will. Like tonight, Steve’s wearing a mint green t-shirt and mint green converse with pale blue jeans and an old, overlarge, powder blue cardigan of their mom’s, except it’s normal-sized on him. He reminds Bucky of the high school jocks from the 80s. He’s so beautiful it hurts.

But Bucky isn’t thinking about it.

Not at all.

Instead, he’s looking forward to video games on a proper set-up and homemade pizza and milkshakes – among other things.

They talk about nothing in particular in the car ride out of the city. André, as always when they’re alone together, is finally comfortable and actually really easy to talk to. Bucky enjoys the company.

“Look, you can punch me if you want, but that boy of yours these days…” he says, eyes on the floor, his head shaking in awe.

“He’s not my boy,” Bucky says, going for nonchalant and missing, “but agreed. I don’t know what the fuck possessed him to try pastel, but…”

“Ouch?” André offers.

“Ouch.”

“Listen, Buck, I have something I’ve been meaning to say to you for about a year now–”

“Woah, woah. You’re not about to propose to me, are you?” Bucky jokes.

“Fuck off,” Dré laughs. “No, you moron. I’ve said it to James, too, and I should really be saying it to Steve, but I don’t know how I could ever get my shit together enough to do _that_ … Anyway, what I’m getting at is: I’m super sorry for being such a class-A dick to you all those years growing up. None of you deserved it.”

“Dude, that’s ancient history. Besides, we get it – Jim and I, anyway. Your dad is…”

“Yeah.”

“So, whatever, okay? You’re forgiven. It’s no big deal. As far as we’re all concerned, you’re a part of us now. Cool?” Bucky say, smiling sincerely.

“Cool,” André says, smiling back.

“Also, are your dad and Hallie home?” Bucky asks, trying for nonchalant again. He hits his mark this time.

“Nope. Just us. They’ll only be back tomorrow. Hallie’s on the runway this week and Dad has a meeting with some transport mogul or other that side. Her last show is tonight,” André explains.

“Next season, she’ll be taking Steve with her. Imagine that doofus on a runway. I always knew he was gayer than me,” Bucky scoffs, but not meanly.

“I am convinced, dude, that he’s bi. I am utterly and completely convinced. Especially after what he said to Jim tonight,” André declares.

_Then I must be one ugly mug._

“I guess you can give a dude a fashion contract, but you can’t make him come out of the closet,” Bucky quips.

André chuckles quietly.

At the house, they span out in the basement den. Two beds are already made on the floor. André must’ve called ahead. They decide on Mario Kart and André jokes about how he always knew Bucky secretly hated his guts. Bucky says the hatred is debatable and hinges on how good he’s going to be. After their third round, the food comes – along with Fucked Up Dennis.

“Dennis?” André says, frowning deeply. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“Of course not. You haven’t spoken to me in almost seven months – not since you started hanging out with the queers. I was hoping we could talk?” he says, stuffing his hands into his pockets nervously.

“Actually, I stopped talking to you after you humiliated James at school. Do you know it’s because of them that you weren’t fucking expelled?”

““Her”, André. James is a girl. You used to believe that, and now they’ve got even you brainwashed. What the fuck is your problem, anyway? You used to make fun of her all the time.”

But André has already gotten to his feet, blankets and X-box controller kicked aside.

“Dré, don’t. He’s lonely and bitter. Just have security escort him out,” Bucky says from behind André.

“Why don’t you shut your fag mouth, Barnes?” Dennis sneers.

“Why don’t you make me, fuck up?” Bucky says, keeping his voice carefully bored.

“I’m calling security,” André announces, heading for the computer system installed by the door.

Dennis steps in between André and it and holds him at bay with an outstretched hand. “I just want to talk. This doesn’t have to be ugly. André, please?”

“I’m not talking to you, Dennis. Get the fuck out of my house. If you come near me again, I’ll kick your ass, I swear,” André says, his voice taking on an edge Bucky last heard during the time André apologized for earlier.

“Your pansy-ass couldn’t beat an egg,” Dennis says.

André decks him.

Bucky jumps up to intervene. He tries to put himself between the other two guys. André backs off, but Dennis comes for him, that old insanity of his gripping him again. Bucky swears he’ll kill someone someday.

“Yeah, go hide behind your fucking boyfriend, you disgusting faggot! You always were a fucking pussy!” Dennis yells, trying to get past Bucky.

“Dennis, would you shut the fuck up, already? At this point, _you_ sound in love with André. Take your fucking loss and get the fuck out,” Bucky says, shoving him away. He topples over and lands smack on his ass on the floor.

André buzzes for security. Bucky looms threateningly over Dennis. André starts dishing up their pizza, getting the bed-trays ready so they don’t mess up the covers. As he gets up to go get the food to put on the trays, he looks over at Bucky, smiling a little. Bucky smiles back.

Then: “BUCKY!”

He dives for Bucky. They hit the stairs on their sides, Bucky feeling his muscles take the impact badly. He wants to ask what the fuck is going on, but André is scrambling to his feet. He advances on Dennis, who is holding something glinting aloft.

A knife.

He was going to stab Bucky. André is not a fighter. Bucky gets up fast, his ribs whining at him. As he watches, Dennis makes a swipe with the knife for Dré. Bucky gets there in time to shove him out of the way and jerks out of the way, too. He kicks at Dennis’ hand, hearing a crack as his foot connects with the other guy’s wrist. Dennis screams in pain. The knife goes clattering to the ground. The fucking psychopath is bent over his injured arm.

Bucky pants, his heart racing with fear and exertion. He doesn’t even hear security coming down the stairs. The next he knows, he’s being pushed out of the way and Dennis is being man-handled away.

“His wrist is broken,” André tells the one guard.

“Should we call an ambulance?” the guard asks.

“Oh, no. No, I just meant – in case you needed some complacency,” André says.

The guard chuckles once, humorlessly.

It’s at least five minutes after they left with Dennis that they talk to each other again. Bucky doesn’t know how much more of this bullshit he can take. He just focuses on finishing his pizza.

“That was…” André starts.

“Yeah,” Bucky finishes.

“You’re okay, though, right? I heard you hit those stairs really hard.”

Bucky looks down at his ribs. A faint bruise is already marking the spot of the impact. He flexes the muscles there. They hurt, but it’s nowhere near unbearable. He probably just bruised the intercostals. He nods at the other guy.

“Nothing serious.”

After they finish their food, André has the plates taken away. When they’re alone again, he pulls a solid hundred out of his pocket and holds it out to Bucky.

“It… Sorry for Dennis, I guess. Thanks for staying after that. I… don’t need anything from you tonight,” he says, not looking at Bucky.

Bucky pushes his hand away.

“Dré, you’re my… I mean, I don’t want your money. We’re cool, okay?” he says, eyebrows knitted together.

André gives Bucky an odd look. Kind of like the look Bucky’s…clients used to give him when they found out he’s more experienced than his age might dictate. He hasn’t taken a single client for about three months now. Not since he and André have been _hanging out_.

“I’m your what?” he asks. His hand with the money hangs between them, forgotten.

Bucky doesn’t know what to tell him. He feels himself blush. He’s never taken any of the money André pays him. Usually, right before he leaves, he sticks it back in André’s wallet. He’s just liked the companionship. In the back of his mind, he’s always believed that this is what it feels like to have a–

He stops himself right there.

“I’m your what, Jimmy?” André demands, his voice all weird, too.

“N-nothing. I wasn’t trying to push…or anything. Sorry,” Bucky says, eyes downcast. He doesn’t want to see that look in André’s eyes. He feels funny. Maybe he should just make an excuse and go home.

“Push,” André says, simply.

Bucky looks up at him, then, bewildered. Does he mean what Bucky thinks he means? Bucky hopes so. Hope is dangerous, but he so badly wants to hope. He so badly wants this – what he hopes this can be.

“Boy…friend,” he breathes.

“Is that what you want?” André asks, his voice breathier than before.

Bucky nods once.

André takes a deep breath, and then leans in to kiss Bucky. Bucky closes the gap.

The two boys kiss until they’re delirious. The bare skin of their chests sends sparks through Bucky. He touches every inch of André he can reach. André bites indentations into Bucky’s neck that make him moan low in his throat. At some point, he kisses down André’s chest and stomach and to the waistband of his pajama bottoms. André jerks a little, but lays completely still after that.

“Dré?”

“Just fucking do it, Bucky, God,” André says, hands over his face.

Bucky snickers to himself, making short work of getting rid of André’s pants. He may as well have gotten rid of André’s entire resolve. By the time the other boy comes, about an hour later after Bucky really worked him up, he’s crying. Bucky cleans him up, gets him dressed, and then goes and lies down next to him. He pulls the teary boy to him and plays with his hair until they both fall asleep.

“ _WHAT IN THE FUCK IS THIS?!_ ”

“DAD!”

Bucky jerks upright when André is ripped away from him. No light gets down here. A scream, which is then cut off by the dull thump of skin hitting stone. Mr. Leland threw André. Bucky calls “lights” and they go on. He has about a split second before Mr. Leland clocks him full in the face.

“DAD, NO!” André screams. “LEAVE HIM ALONE! IT’S ME YOU’RE MAD AT. HIT ME. LEAVE BUCKY ALONE!”

Bucky has fallen back onto the bed. He scrambles to get some footing when the older man advances on him. He notices Hallie standing, petrified, by the door. He wishes she’d go to André, who is sobbing brokenly in the corner. Soon, his sobs start muting as Bucky sinks deeper and deeper into panic.

He doesn’t get up in time. Mr. Leland grabs him by the throat and tries to pull the same shit he pulled with Dré, but Bucky’s quite a bit heavier. He tilts his head down enough to bite at Mr. Leland’s hand. He drops Bucky, who kicks the older man’s legs out from under him. He vaults over André’s father and dashes for his boyfriend. André’s already on his feet by the time Bucky gets to him, and the two of them head for the stairs. André dips down to grab something off the floor, but he’s right on Bucky’s heels. Bucky pushes Hallie out of the way, calling back for the other boy to hurry.

“Bucky?” Georgia says, eyes wide and terrified. “What’s going on?”

“G, you have to get Steve and James. Tell them to come immediately and to bring the cops. Please, Georgia? Hurry!” Bucky yells at her, spinning around at the sound of more footsteps coming up the stairs. The brightness of the day streaming in through the glass wall to the back of the house almost renders everything in front of it a silhouette.

Sure enough, Mr. Leland’s silhouette makes a reappearance. Behind him, Hallie hobbles up the stairs, clutching her face.

“Jimmy!” André calls. Bucky’s head snaps to him and André throws him something shiny. Dennis’ knife! As Bucky grabs it out of the air, Mr. Leland charges. André calls for Hallie to go to him.

Mr. Leland keeps his distance from the knife. Bucky keeps swiping it at him, hoping to keep him at bay long enough for help to get there. It goes well until Georgia comes running in, screaming about how James and Steve are on their way. Bucky is distracted for a millisecond, that’s all – that’s too long. He’s dived to the ground, the knife clattering out of his reach. Mr. Leland straddles him and starts laying into him with his fists. Every blow promises to knock Bucky out, but every time his brain keeps him conscious for the next punch. He feels teeth break in his jaw; he feels ribs break in his chest. At some point, the older man is yanked off him and Bucky turns his head to the side to spit out blood and broken teeth. He can’t see shit. Both his eyes are swollen shut. He can’t really hear, either. His ears are ringing from all the blows to the head he’s taken.

Then, there’s a gentle hand on his face. Someone is saying his name right by his ear. His brain finally lets him pass out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the pain and suffering.


	4. C: Alternate Motive/Episode

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, some smuttiness. TONNES of angst. This is also the second to last chapter, so get your tissues and alcohol ready, children, because if these next two chapters don't fuck you up, nothing I ever write will.

“How is he?” James asks, coming to sit next to Steve.

Steve sighs in answer. He doesn’t want to talk about it anymore. He feels like James is only asking for something to say, because they don’t really have anything else to talk about. They don’t even have school anymore. Steve just spends his days drawing next to Bucky’s bed, sleeping on the other bed in the room, or at work – the longest he’s been away being that week he went to Italy to walk a runway he has no memory of walking. He just wanted to be here. Bucky’s been in a coma for over two months now. The doctors all say it’s better for him this way – that his body has more time and resources to heal with when he’s unconscious. Steve can’t argue, but he hates seeing him this way.

“Do you want some food? Georgia’s bringing us some pizza from home, so I can sneak some in to Dré. I can bring you some, too?” Jim offers.

“Thanks, Jim,” Steve says and smiles at them.

“Stop that. You’re freaking me the fuck out,” they say, recoiling dramatically.

Steve drops the forced smile.

“Sorry, it’s been a while.”

“Clearly. Thankfully, no one expects you to smile on the runway.”

This causes Steve to grin a little. He sets down his sketch pad and pencil and turns to James.

“How’s André?”

“Physio-therapy is going well. He’ll be able to walk without the crutches again in about a month or so. For now, they’re just trying to figure out the random losses of function in his leg. They think somewhere something is pinching off a nerve,” Jim reports.

“Shit. Will they have to operate again if that’s it?”

“Not necessarily. They could just adapt the physical therapy to work it free, depending on which nerve. Bucky saved Dré’s life, Stevie. I will never stop being grateful. I just pray to whoever’s listening that he comes out alright on the other side,” they say, worried eyes scanning Bucky’s sleeping face.

Steve sighs again, eyes on the floor.

“As long as I came out just as pretty, I’m sure I’ll be fine,” a hoarse voice rasps.

James and Steve both jump up.

“Bucky?”

“Hey, Stevie. You definitely got uglier in the meantime,” Bucky says, smiling weakly.

“That’s because he spent the last 2 months crying at your bedside, you crazy motherfucker,” James surmises nicely.

“You got the wrong guy. I don’t do chicks. So, it wouldn’t be your mo–”

“Oh, shut up,” Steve says, throwing himself at Bucky. He pulls Bucky up into a tight hug and Bucky wraps his arms around Steve’s shoulders. By his grip, Steve can feel that his friend is still very weak. He lets him fall back into bed gently, making sure he’s comfortable.

“I’ll give you two a minute,” Jim says, making to leave.

“No! James! How’s André? Is he alright?” Bucky asks, desperation fueling him back upright.

“He’s fine, Jimmy. He’s in physical therapy every day, but he’s making a speedy recovery. He just has a leg we have to get a handle on. You got the worst of it,” they finish, looking Bucky over gravely.

“Can he come visit later? I don’t think I can walk yet,” Bucky asks, lying back down and closing his eyes.

“Absolutely. The exercise will do him good. I’ll go tell him you’re awake,” Jim says. With a last smile, they leave.

“Send the doctor, too!” Steve calls after them.

Bucky reaches out for Steve, his eyes still closed. Steve reckons he must be exhausted. He takes Bucky’s hand.

“You doing okay, Stevie?” Bucky asks, quietly.

Steve leans his chest against the railing on the bed, resting his chin on his unoccupied hand.

“I missed you so much. I’ve been so worried. The doctors kept saying you were healing, but the coma they had to keep you in made it hard for them to gauge the damage to your head…” he trails off before he starts crying.

“Well, Mr. Leland will be disappointed to hear his efforts failed: I’m still gay,” Bucky says.

Steve snorts. “I’ll have James inform him when they go visit him in prison next.”

“I hope he fucking rots. I’m going to be scarred out the wazoo and he treated James and André like shit their entire lives. I honestly hope he gets beaten up every miserable day of his pathetic life in that place. Him and Fucked Up Dennis. Where is that kid, anyway? Did the cops get him, too?”

Bucky’s heart-monitor is beeping erratically at this point. After nearly three months here, Steve knows enough to read that his blood pressure is elevated, too.

“Bucky, it’s good that you remember so much, but you have calm down. You’re still very weak. Your body can’t take this much strain just yet. Please, Buck?” Steve asks, trying to sound calm and reasonable while mildly freaking out.

Bucky takes a few deep breaths, right as the doctor comes in. Then, Steve is brushed aside, and Bucky’s bed is wheeled off by medical personnel. Steve follows right on their heels, his sketch pad and pencils under his arm. Bucky sees him and calls for him, so Steve picks up the pace and gets alongside the bed to hold Bucky’s hand. The doctor says Steve cannot go into the MRI and X-ray rooms with Bucky, but Bucky says he just wants Steve with him as far possible.

“Show me your sketches later?” Bucky whispers before they push him into the MRI room.

“You got it.”

Steve sinks down to the floor against the wall and decides to use the time while Bucky gets tested to finish his favorite sketch. One of the nurses spots him and brings him a cup of decaf coffee. They chat a bit, while Steve puts the finishing touches to his sketch.

“So, are you two close?” she asks, sitting down next to him.

“Super close,” Steve answers, shading in detail. Not for the first time, he wishes he’d done this in color.

“Like, dating?” the nurse continues to fish.

Steve’s head snaps up and then his eyes find hers. He searches them for any hint of betrayal, but finds none. She’s genuinely interested. Steve checks himself. So what if she was an asshole? He’s faced worse. If there’s one thing he knows now, it’s that he’d do anything for Bucky. It’d be a fucking honor to have Bucky want him that way.

“Nope. He has a boyfriend,” Steve says sincerely.

“The other guy who got brought in with him?”

“Yeah. I date his twin,” Steve says.

“I see. Is his twin also a boy?” she asks, taking a sip of her coffee.

“Sometimes,” Steve answers, going back to his sketch. “Sometimes, they’re a little more girly. Most of the time, gender is a myth and they look more masc than I do.”

“I don’t know. I think the pastel pink suits you. It screams “confident in my masculinity”,” the nurse opines.

Steve smiles, but doesn’t look up. “That’s what my dad said, actually.”

“Smart man.”

“Mom was afraid the other guys would kick my ass for wearing all these soft colors, but Dad said if they try anything, he gives me express permission to fight back and show them that I’m twice the man they are – exactly _for_ wearing “girly” colors.”

“It’s a pity,” the nurse says, getting back to her feet.

Steve frowns. “What is?”

“That your dad’s married,” she says and traipses back down the hall.

Steve is still smirking to himself when they push Bucky back out. His friend is sitting up now, much more awake than earlier. He has two CDs in his lap and his covers are around his waist to free his arms. He has the doctor stop and Steve hop on the front of the bed and the two of them are pushed back to his room. There, their parents are waiting for them, along with Jim, Dré, Georgia and Hallie.

“André?” Bucky says, eyes taking in his leg in a brace.

“I’m okay, Jimmy. I’m fine. You saved me,” the other boy cries. Next thing, André is across the room, sans his crutches, and kissing Bucky fiercely.

The boys’ mom is in tears, Mr. Rogers pulling her to his side. Bucky reaches out for her when André goes back over to James. She lets her adopted son hold her and he lets her cry all over his hospital gown. Steve never leaves Bucky’s bedside. After all the commotion dies down and everyone heads home, Mrs. Rogers hands Steve a duffle with some clean clothes for both him and Bucky, and some snacks and Steve’s laptop and chargers.

“You two call if you need anything, alright? I love you,” their mother says, fingers light on Bucky’s cheek.

“Love you, too, Mom,” Bucky says and wraps her in a last hug.

“Love you,” Steve says, too.

Mrs. Rogers walks determinedly around Bucky’s bed and plants a pale pink, lipsticky kiss right on Steve’s forehead. He smiles at her. Mr. Rogers smiles at them all.

“Do I get to see your sketches now?” Bucky asks.

“You can see them all, but I did one for you to have,” Steve says, flipping open the pad and taking out the carefully removed sketch. He hands it to Bucky, his ages-old tension at sharing his work with anyone tingling in the pit of his stomach.

Bucky looks over at him, surprised. Then, his expression melts into a smile. “Stevie, it’s only me. You know I love everything you draw.”

Steve exhales in a whoosh. “I know… But this one is special. I’ve never drawn something especially for you before. I was excited to know what you thought.”

Bucky gives it another once-over, the surprise back on his face. Does Steve imagine it, or does the other boy tear up a bit? Steve’s suspicions are confirmed when Bucky clutches the drawing to his chest and two shiny tears roll down his face. Steve smiles bigger than he ever has before, on the verge of tears himself.

Instead of saying anything, Bucky reaches out and pulls Steve onto his bed with him. Steve goes easily, kicking off his sneakers as he does. Bucky holds Steve like he used to when they were kids and Steve needed comfort. He still smells like eucalyptus and spearmint. Bucky doesn’t smell like Bucky, but Steve remembers how he used to smell: leather car seats and pineapple air-freshener, that later became soap and pool water – clean. Now, it’s just hospital and sweat.

“I missed you _so much_ , Buck,” Steve whispers, burying his face in the other boy’s neck.

“I dreamt of you all the time,” Bucky says, sounding distant. “It… _hurt_ , to dream of you that way. I couldn’t do it anymore, Stevie. I can’t. I missed you too much. I’m so glad to have you back.”

Bucky holds him so tightly, but he’s not uncomfortable. He really wants to ask what the hell Bucky’s talking about, because none of it makes any sense to Steve. He wonders if it makes any sense to Bucky. The guy did just wake up from a two and half month coma. Maybe he’s still a little foggy? Whatever. Right now, Steve doesn’t want to be anywhere else. He has his best friend in the entire world back. If he died now, he’d die the happiest he’s ever been.

“Stevie, can I ask you a weird favor?” Bucky says after about half an hour.

“You want me to help you shower?” Steve ventures a guess.

“Please? I can smell myself a mile off. I don’t know how the fuck you’re coping,” Bucky says, detaching himself, self-consciously, from Steve.

“Love is blind,” Steve responds, getting up.

Bucky smiles at that. Steve’s heart clenches in his chest.

In shower, things get awkward and then sad. Bucky can’t walk or stand by himself yet. His body is still too weak. Steve brings in one of the plastic hospital chairs and has Bucky sit in that. Then, they strip. Steve strips to his undies, but Bucky isn’t wearing any. The guy looks awkward about it, but Steve acts like he doesn’t see anything. When he turns on the water, however, Bucky tries to stand again, using the chair as a leaning post. Steve saw Bucky shirtless quite often, sharing a room and all, and this is not his Bucky. He is so skinny. He looks like he looked when he was ten years old – the last year before he started swimming. On top of that, Bucky was right: his entire body is covered in scars. Steve wants to murder John Leland. As it is, he helps Bucky stay upright while he washes himself. At some point, he says he has to sit down again. Steve gets it and washes his back for him and his legs.

Bucky waits while Steve washes himself and then it’s the mission of getting into clean pajamas. Their mom has packed them each a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt. Bucky looks forlornly at his AFI shirt that is now miles too big for him. Steve just lightly takes it from him again and tosses Bucky his soft yellow tie-dye shirt. It’s skintight on Steve and so fits Bucky well. Steve slips the band-tee over his head and then throws his arms out and asks Bucky how he looks.

“Kinda…hot, actually. James’d be into it,” Bucky says with a smirk.

Steve feels like he’s both there, but not. Like when you sit on your own foot too long and it goes simultaneously dead and warm and you touch it, but it doesn’t feel real.

He moves to help Bucky back into bed, but he asks if they can sleep in Steve’s bed instead. The covers smell too much like BO for him. When they’re both comfortable, Bucky slowly turns himself onto his side and stares at Steve. The blue of Bucky’s eyes is almost entirely hidden by his pupils in the dimness of the room. He looks like he wants to tell Steve something, but can’t decide how. Steve doesn’t know what to say to help him, so he just tries to look as open and inviting as possible. Bucky starts frowning and so Steve stops and pretends he has something in his eye.

“Love you, brother,” Bucky says, giving him a soft smile.

That feeling of not being quite there comes back to Steve, except it feels more like he’s fading away somehow.

“Love you, too,” he says.

Bucky closes his eyes and falls asleep almost immediately. Steve doesn’t sleep for another two hours, at least. When they wake up the next morning, they’re wrapped in each other like when they were little kids – except Steve’s heart has never felt so hollow.

 

Four months pass like four hours. Steve dropped out of football and he and Bucky and André and James all take MMA at their gym now. Mr. Leland isn’t coming home anytime soon, and Hallie has accepted legal guardianship of the twins. She reverted to James’ correct pronouns almost immediately, aside from one or two habitual slip-ups that she always looked so heartbroken over that they could only have been mistakes. She always apologized and always corrected herself and James always hugged her and thanked her.

André and Bucky are inseparable now. They walk the halls at school, holding hands and whispering together constantly. No one dares mess with them. Those who try get their asses handed to them. The first had been Fucked Up Dennis, who James had beaten the shit out of in an alley after school one day. James defends André now, and he absolutely loves it. The twins have never been this close and they’re so happy. Jim and Steve also appear to be close again. In fact, a week ago, they both got detention for a month when one of the cleaning staff caught them groping each other in the mop closet. A plot twist came in when James no longer had a shirt to put back on, because apparently Steve ripped it off them. Bucky can’t remember the last time he’d laughed that much. James flirted with a freshman and got him to give them his sweater. Smooth. Fucking James.

The only downside about life at that moment is that Bucky and André have to repeat 11th grade, because they missed all their finals and summer school while they were in hospital. Principal Howard is being a total bro, though, and letting them do everything the seniors are doing – save for the actual work. This means James and Steve are scouting for colleges, while André and Bucky are recycling calculus homework. Speaking of math, Mr. Oakley’s replacement is where all bets are off for Bucky and André. He looks like Tom Hardy – he’s even fucking British. Bucky actually thanks God daily that he’s already done the homework, because he and André and all the girls in class are too busy drooling over Dr. (yes, he has a fucking doctorate in math) Wilson. He can’t be more than five years older than them. Bucky and André trade wicked fantasies of what they’d do to that man if they ever got him alone.

Tonight, they’re at another infamous Leland Manor Party. Unlike their father, Hallie helped organize this one, and there is so much good food and a fucking DJ, and the entirety of the senior and junior classes were invited. She got them some light booze, too, saying she’ll be supervising and that if anyone gets too smashed, the drivers can take them home. Bucky is in his element: plenty of beer for him, and good music – and pizza bites. He was dressed in all-black when he got here, but his shirt has since disappeared. He doesn’t care much. It’s a tattered one that was tattered back when his dad still used to wear it. It just looked cool with his jeans and boots. He’s also been growing his hair out, deciding not to quit when it got back to covering his entire head (it’d been shaved for the duration of his time in hospital). André says the length is incredibly sexy on him. Bucky had replied that he thinks André on him is sexier.

They dance like there’s no tomorrow, the bass making the entire house vibrate. He and André move against each other in delicious friction. Dré’s hands are all over him, pulling and tugging him closer all the time. At some point, his hands are clasped around Bucky’s neck and their foreheads are pressed together. Out of the corner of his eye, Bucky sees Steve and James dancing like may as well have been naked. Then, André’s pushing against him and kissing his neck. Bucky exhales heavily, his head rolling back. But Steve and James come back into view, and Steve is sucking hickeys into James’ neck – his eyes riveted to Bucky’s. Bucky’s knees give out a little and he grabs onto André for support. The other guy comes up to kiss Bucky hotly. Bucky refocuses his attention, ignoring the funny feeling in his stomach.

After a while, the same beat and even beer gets a little stale, and Bucky decides to step out for a bit and get some fresh air. Outside, he finds Steve – as per usual – at the beer-pong table, losing on purpose. Bucky pulls out a cigarette and lights up, puffing the tension out of his dance-weary body. Steve spots him, winks – and then throws in ball after ball, winning effortlessly. The other guy, a junior on the football team, chugs his beer miserably.

“It’s not your fault. I had the game rigged!” Steve says. When the other guy looks up, suspiciously, Steve continues, “I never should have let you play against me. I’m impossible to beat. I’m just that good.”

Then, Steve chugs the rest of his beer, too, kisses James full on the mouth and steps through the crowd to Bucky. The latter finishes his cigarette and then lights up another one. Steve takes his unoccupied hand and drags him along. Behind him, Bucky sees that James is too preoccupied with setting up another game to notice much of what they’re doing. Bucky is apprehensive, to say the least.

“What’s up with you?” Bucky asks, when they’re alone and far from the party.

“Just having a good time,” Steve says, staring directly into Bucky’s eyes with a lazy smile, his hands in his pockets.

“Are you drunk?” Bucky asks, dragging on his smoke.

Steve bursts out laughing, all the tension draining out of the situation.

“Utterly sauced,” he admits, scrubbing a hand down his face. His high-cut light blue jeans and high-top white Converse make him look like a Marty McFly cosplayer, but buff. Bucky remembers, distantly, wondering what it’d be like to put his hands on those hips. It feels like a million years ago.

“Do you look like Marty McFly on purpose?” Bucky asks.

“Marty McFly wishes he looked like me,” Steve says, cute for being cocky.

Bucky notices. Steve might believe he’s being inconspicuous, but Bucky notices. In an attempt to appear obliviously nonchalant, Bucky leans up against the side of the house, the plaster prickly against his bare back. Steve stretches, his shirt coming untucked from his jeans and revealing a swath of bear, washboard stomach. Oh, boy. Bucky knows he needs to leave. He should just make an excuse about going to find André. Something here is way off.

“Stevie…” he starts, but then he _notices_ again. He _notices_ how Steve moves microscopically closer, how his shoulders tense up, how his eyes burn an intense, hard blue.

“What did you dream, Buck?” Steve says, quietly. Bucky really shouldn’t have been able to hear him over the party sounds still filtering toward them.

Bucky frowns in response.

“The night after you came out of the coma, you said you dreamt about me all the time, but it hurt. What did you dream?” Steve elaborates. He steps deliberately closer, then, almost closing the gap between them. “Because I never stopped thinking about you – not once, the entire time you were under. Thinking about…”

He trails off. Bucky’s cigarette burns itself out between his fingers. He kills it and chucks the butt.

“Thinking about what?” he asks, his voice coming out huskier than he intended.

“You first,” Steve says, tilting his head. “What did you dream?”

As Bucky gathers his thoughts, Steve shifts just a smidge closer, and Bucky forgets everything he’s ever known in his life. He can’t even hear. He’s going underwater again, except instead of it smothering him in heat like always, his skin is covered in pinpricks of intense cold.

“You have goosebumps,” Steve says, putting his hands on Bucky’s wrists and moving them upward, along Bucky’s arms.

Naturally, the only thing his traitorous anxiety will let him hear is Steve’s voice, the velvety texture of it almost lifting him out of his body. Bucky doesn’t dare move. He doesn’t even breathe. His vision begins to tunnel.

“Are you cold?” asks the other boy, his hands moving down from Bucky’s shoulders, along his chest, to his waist. “You can borrow my jacket, if you want?” Steve offers, close enough that Bucky can feel his breath on his lips. “Or my shirt?”

And Bucky wants this. He’s never stopped wanting this – but it feels so wrong. He can’t breathe and he can’t see and all he can hear is that voice and all he can feel is wrong, wrong, _wrong_. He wishes he understood why. Maybe because he has a boyfriend? Maybe because Steve is drunk? Maybe because of James? Maybe because something about Steve is incredibly off and Bucky doesn’t know what it is, but it makes his insides squirm violently.

Steve is against him now, their bodies pressed together. Bucky can feel every dip, every ridge, every inch of the only person he’s ever been willing to lose himself to. He has no conscious memory of putting his arms around Steve. Bucky’s entire being is betraying his sanity. He’s trying to cling onto that speck of doubt, because he wouldn’t have it if he’d thought that this is a simple choice. He doesn’t have a bad judge of character. Even when he used to take johns, he’d scout them out first, so he can reject those that gave him a bad vibe. But the closer Steve gets, the harder that speck of doubt is to remember. He can’t do this. Bucky can’t do this.

“Steve…”

Steve kisses him.

Bucky’s head implodes. Heat explodes through him in bursts, fueling his limbs into action. He’s kissing Steve back, their mouths like fire on each other. Bucky’s hands are under Steve’s shirt, on his back, feeling the muscles there pull and tighten as their bodies move together. Steve’s hands grip Bucky’s hips unbearably tight, his thumbs tucked into the waistband of Bucky’s underwear. The pressure on Bucky’s hips makes him want to pick Steve up, press him against the wall, have his hands on Bucky be replaced by his legs around Bucky’s waist.

This is what Bucky dreamt about: kissing Steve so hard his head spun. Sucking on Steve’s bottom lip and hearing Steve pant in his ear, the heat of his breath sending white hot sparks across Bucky’s skin. Kissing at the base of Steve’s throat, his head rolling back and his pulse visible in his neck, a low moan making his entire chest vibrate.

“This is what I’ve been thinking about,” Steve says, his voice unsteady. “That day in the waiting room. I kept wishing I’d kissed you, then. I don’t even understand… Bucky, does this mean I’m gay?”

There it is. That speck of doubt. It’s visible again. Suddenly, it’s all Bucky sees. How could he have missed it before?

He pushes away from Steve, putting several feet between them. Steve looks shocked and confused and also incredibly disheveled. Bucky pulls out another cigarette – anything to wash the taste of Steve from his mouth. From somewhere behind them, someone calls for Steve. He fixes his clothes at warp-speed. Bucky gives him one last look, unable to keep disgust off his face. They call for Steve again – James. That’s Bucky’s cue to leave.

Steve doesn’t call after him. Not that Bucky expected him to. Bucky feels very naked and wishes he had his shirt back. His wish is granted when, just inside the back doors, he finds it draped over the sunbed. He slips it over his head and goes in search of beer, forgetting Hallie’s “no smoking in the house” rule.

 

Hell is other people.

Bucky can’t remember who said that. They weren’t wrong, though. Everything has gone to shit. Literally, everything. His parents are keeping a close eye on him, because they found a banky of weed in his one jacket pocket. He hadn’t put it there: it was André. André is planning on dropping out of school to be an actor. He’s been hanging out with the acting types, “broadening [his] horizons”. This included getting plastered in public and harassing pedestrians, trying all manner of drugs and shaving his head while high, piercing his nose in one of their apartments with a boiled needle while butt-naked and having all his expensive clothes do a disappearing act – the list goes on. Oh, and apparently he had sex with a girl – just to see what it’d be like – but it doesn’t count as cheating, because he’s gay.

Bucky clocked him for that one.

He and André don’t speak anymore. Bucky has once again cut ties with all his friends. He goes to the all the MMA sessions where they aren’t, avoids them successfully at school, sits by himself at lunch and sleeps in the guestroom at home. Steve hasn’t tried talking to him since that night at the party and Bucky hasn’t been around enough for himself to cave and beat Steve up. He spends all his free time swimming and/or running track and teaching himself the guitar.

On top of all of that, he’s failing school. He’s never in any of the classes he shares with André and he has no one to hand in his homework for him. He can’t hand it in after class, because the teachers don’t accept it. He doesn’t study for his tests, because he can’t handle sitting still in his own head for longer than five minutes at a time. He’s going to tank out of life sooner rather than later. Just the other day, Dr. Wilson stopped him in the hall and asked him why he hasn’t seen Bucky in class for almost three months. Bucky didn’t have an answer for him other than “if it bothers you so much, just fail me. I’m too tired to care.” This had left Dr. Wilson with raised eyebrows and a slack mouth. Bucky had stomped off to the locker rooms to change into his running clothes.

“Hey, Bucky! Food’s on the table!” his mom calls as he walks in the door that afternoon.

“Not hungry!” he calls back, because the thought of sharing a meal with Steve fucking Rogers is enough to put anyone off their food.

He barely shut the door of the guestroom when it’s thrown open again and Sarah Rogers is there, washcloth over her shoulder and her arms crossed sternly. Bucky sighs and dumps his bag on the bed.

“Don’t you sigh at me long-sufferingly, Bucky Barnes. What on God’s green earth has gotten into you?” she demands to know, her blonde hair coming out of its precise bun.

“Nothing!” Bucky says, a bit too whiny. He tries again, “Nothing. I’m just not hungry. I’ll get something later.”

“You mean, after Steve’s left?” she hits the nail, painfully, on the head. She widens her eyes at him, expecting an answer.

He starts undressing, getting out of his sweaty gym clothes. It has the desired effect: she turns around and marches from the room, slamming the door behind her. He takes a shower in the en suite and then gets into joggers and a hoodie, pushing his damp hair out of his face. Checking the time, he knows Steve will be at the gym with James right then, so he heads down the kitchen for food.

“I’m still waiting for an answer, Bucky.”

“ _Fuck_ me up. Mom! Can I have a minute to restart my heart?!” Bucky cries out, clutching at his chest and glaring at her emerging from behind the door.

“You’ll watch your mouth with me, young man!” she says. “Now, we are going downstairs and having some lunch together and you are going to tell me exactly what the hell is going on, because I have had just about enough of the avoid and evade tactics you employ when things don’t go your way. March!”

He knows he’s been beat. No more sighing and moodiness. He walks downstairs with her and deposits himself into one of the dining room chairs. She puts a plate of beef salad in front of him and a banana protein smoothie. She has some salad, too, and a glass of water. Before they get into it, she redoes her bun and straightens out her dress. Then, she pins Bucky with an expectant look and takes a sip of her water.

Not knowing where to begin, he decided to start with the second thing that pissed him off after his little run-in with Steve at the party.

“André cheated on me – with a girl.”

Their mom’s eyebrows shoot up and disappear under her bangs.

“Bucky, sweetie, I thought he was gay?” she says, carefully.

“He IS. That’s why he says it doesn’t count. He only did it to see what it’d be like. He’s doing all this stupid shit to ‘broaden his horizons’, because he wants to drop out of school to be an actor.”

“What does Hallie say about all this? Does she even know?” Mrs. Rogers presses.

“She sure found out when he pitched up naked and nose-pierced on their doorstep one morning. She says she “supports him trying to find himself”. André paints me as the bad guy, for trying to talk some sense into him. It’s not fair, Mom! And now, because of avoiding his sorry ass, I’m fucking failing school and everything’s a mess!” Bucky only realizes after that he shouldn’t have cussed like that in front of his mom, but he can’t take it back now and just drops his head into his hands. This is when he discovers that he’s crying. He wants to KO himself for being such a big baby.

He gets pulled into a hug. Mrs. Rogers holds him against her tightly, fingers running soothingly through his hair until he calms down. The tears still run down his face, silently, when she kneels in front of him to level with him.

“Sweetheart, I’m sure if you let me talk to Principal Howard, they’ll let you submit your overdue homework or even use your grades from last year. It’s not the end of the world. You’re a good student. Your teachers know that. They also know you well enough by now to know when something’s wrong – and they’ll understand. We can get ahead of this. I just have one question: what does this have to do with Steve?”

_Your son, Stevie-boy, daydreamed about kissing me for two and a half months, just so he could test the theory on if he’s possibly queer or not. He had me lay my emotions bare in the most telling way possible, short of outright saying something, and then asked me if us kissing makes him gay. The last time I checked, I nowhere near resembled a guinea-pig._

“He and James still hang out with André. I’m avoiding them all,” Bucky says. None of that is untrue, but it’s nowhere near the whole story, obviously.

“Okay, well, we’ll help you sort it out, okay? We’ll fix things at school, and then Dad and I will talk to your brother, okay?” she says, hand against his cheek and eyes steady on his.

Only just managing to stop himself from sighing again in frustration, he nods once and lets it go. It won’t matter what they say to Steve. He’d rather they didn’t say anything to him at all, but that would just raise unwanted suspicion. So, either Steve can ‘fess up to defend himself, or he can sit there and take it and try to fight Bucky. Bucky has had enough. He will knock Steve’s dick in the dirt – and James’, too, if they come after him. He can’t let them dictate his life like this forever. He’s not a loser. He deserves a future, too, or whatever.

“Thanks, Mom.”

 

_“What did you say to Mom?!”_

Bucky sighs for what feels like the trillionth time in his existence. Steve Rogers is literally the most exasperating person ever. What if he just got up and knocked Steve the fuck out? They could avoid this conversation AND Bucky could blow off a little steam.

“Nothing that wasn’t true,” Bucky says, instead. He doesn’t look up from his second reading of _Macbeth_. He figured it couldn’t hurt to refresh what he knows, even if they’re just going to take his grades from last year unless he hands something else in.

“Then why is she on my ass for hanging out with “bad influences”? Who have I been hanging out with that’s so bad?” Steve demands, crossing his arms just like his mom.

“André? You’re telling me he doesn’t brag to you, too, about all the drugs he does and how drunk he gets and how school is for undecided losers?” Bucky turns the page. Macbeth just ran into the witches for the first time and Banko was flipping out.

“He’s our friend, Bucky. We don’t just give up on friends. We try to help. That’s what James and I are doing – instead of ratting him out and then throwing a fucking tantrum to Mom,” Steve condescends.

Bucky saves his place and turns his chair to face Steve.

“I talked to him and talked to him until I was blue in the face, Stevie. His response was to fuck a chick to see what it’d be like, since he’s gay. So, how about you get your head out of your fucking ass and smell the bullshit, instead of throwing a fucking tantrum _at me_ for standing up for myself for fucking once.”

Steve’s serious expression dissolves in a second. “Say “fuck” one more time?”

“Fuck!” Bucky says, and then they’re both laughing. “It’s my favorite word, I guess. I don’t know, it just feels so natural. How do you _not_ say it all the time?”

“Let’s be real: out of the two of us, I’m the boy you take home to your mom,” Steve says, gesturing down at himself in yet another preppy pastel outfit that makes Steve’s life look so together, Bucky feels like a raccoon with rabies by comparison.

“I can’t be that bad. You brought me home to yours,” Bucky says, the laughter dying on his lips.

The mirth leaves Steve, too, but not the light it brought to his eyes. He sits down on the edge of Bucky’s bed, dropping his head to hide his face and running his hand through his fluffy, golden hair.

“I’m sorry, Bucky. I’m sorry for always treating you like shit. You’ve forgiven me so many times and all I do is screw you over again, because I don’t know what the fuck I want or who I am,” he says, talking to his lap.

Bucky’s first instinct is to go over to his friend and take his hand. He guesses that’s the problem. He’s always so busy taking care of everyone else, that he forgets to take care of himself. He loves Steve Rogers and his parents with all his heart and he’d die for them without question, but he wishes that – even if it’s only sometimes – Steve would think of Bucky first, instead of himself or James or André or literally any other person who doesn’t walk around making sure Steve doesn’t so much as get his shoes dirty going through a puddle.

“Hey, Stevie?”

Steve looks up, his eyes glistening with unshed tears.

“I’m with you ‘til the end of the line,” Bucky says.

That does it. The tears roll down his friend’s face freely now. He looks like he needs to cry for a while, but Bucky and his neurotic need to keep Steve happy cannot let him cry alone. So, he goes and sits next to Steve and takes his hand and lets Steve cry on his shoulder and almost crush Bucky’s fingers for some way to get out all the pent-up emotions he’s feeling. Eventually, Bucky angles his body so Steve can keep his hand, but Bucky can also hug him.

Instead of letting himself be hugged, Steve uses the sleeve of his baby blue hoodie to dry his face and then he pulls his hand out of Bucky’s and drapes his wrists around Bucky’s neck. Bucky moves closer, ready to pull Steve against him. But, instead, Steve presses their foreheads together, closing his eyes and breathing deeply for a minute. The longest minute of Bucky’s life.

“I love you, Bucky Barnes. I love you forever,” Steve says, opening his eyes to make sure Bucky knows how serious he’s being.

“Forever,” Bucky breathes, infinitely sad, but refusing to be.

This time, he kisses Steve. Steve sighs, his lips parting willingly. Bucky deepens the kiss, trying to put as much love as he can muster into it. Once and for all, he needs Steve to understand. No more pining and feeling sorry for himself and wishing the world was different. He’s taking it now: he’s taking what he wants. Fuck daydreams.

Steve’s fingers knot in Bucky’s shaggy hair, pulling on it slightly. Bucky inhales sharply. Steve kisses him hard, crushing them together. Bucky’s hands find Steve’s sides and grip onto them like someone might tear Steve away from him. Deciding they aren’t close enough, Steve swings his leg around to straddle Bucky and Bucky pulls him into his lap. His hands slip under Steve shirt and his thumbs press bruises into Steve’s hipbones. Steve’s one hand moves down to Bucky’s chin and then his neck and then Bucky goes entirely boneless, falling back onto the bed, his head hitting the pillows.

It’s so much different this time. Steve loves him. They love each other. That’s all that matters, right? As long as they have that, everything else will fall into place when and if it needs to. Bucky never wants to let go of this boy in his arms ever again. He knows he’ll never get tired of the texture of Steve’s skin, of the way his kisses make Bucky feel like he’s taking a cold swim in the dead of summer, of the way everything crooked in Bucky’s world seems to realign whenever Steve smiles his perfect smile at Bucky. Bucky would spend the rest of his life fighting his fists bloody to keep Steven Grant Rogers happy. _Forever_.

“ _Boys! The twins are here!_ ” Mrs. Rogers calls up the stairs.

They break apart, Steve sliding off Bucky before Bucky even has a chance to open his eyes. When he does, though, it’s to Steve fixing his clothes and flattening his hair. Bucky spots, fleetingly, Steve redoing the button on his pants. He can’t remember undoing it…

“You coming?” Steve says.

The heat rising in Bucky’s neck is instantaneous. Then, he realizes Steve means to hang out with the twins. He shakes his head, his hair falling into his face.

“You can’t pay me enough to be even remotely friendly to André Leland. Sorry, dude. You’re on your own,” Bucky says, headed for his copy of _Macbeth_ again.

Steve nods once and then leaves, closing the door behind him.

Bucky manages to read through the entire play, do his trigonometry (Dr. Wilson makes math far more understandable and Bucky has a chance to up his grades now, since he’s redoing the year), teach himself Paramore’s _Misguided Ghosts_ on guitar and color his nails black with Sharpie by the time Steve knocks on his door again and announces the twins are gone.

Bucky’s sitting in the dark, light from the streetlamps all he can faintly see by, but Steve’s hoodie is almost luminous and he doesn’t turn the bedroom light on when he comes in and shuts the door behind him.

“André didn’t even ask for you. Also, he went on and on for an hour about how he thinks Hollywood is bullshit and how he’s going to stick with his current “company” of actors, because mainstream production companies just type-cast you and he doesn’t want to be some Disney twink. James looked so mortified, I’m surprised they didn’t go after him when he went to the bathroom to lock him in there until they left,” Steve recounts, falling backwards onto the bed.

“He once told me that I was only allowed to blow him or jerk him off from then on, because he wanted his body in as close to pristine condition as he could get it, because an actor’s body is what they sell the world – some pretentious garbage like that. All I knew I was he had another thing coming if he thought I’d blow him for as long as I used to fuck him,” Bucky says, smirking to himself.

Steve pushes up onto his elbows, his hoodie and shirt riding up to expose his stomach, and gives Bucky a funny look. Bucky frowns back, slowly rising from his desk chair. Steve makes room for him on the bed, kicking off his shoes to sit cross-legged by the pillows.

“What’s that like, anyway?” he asks, once Bucky’s settled. “Sleeping with guys, I mean?”

“I wouldn’t know how to explain it. I don’t have anything to compare it to,” Bucky answers, honestly. “You’ll have to ask André. I guess you could ask James, too, but they don’t like girls, either.”

“I guess I can’t even help myself. I’ve never slept with a girl, either – only James. James is good, though. Like, REALLY good,” Steve assesses.

“I know they’re a good kisser,” Bucky says.

“Yeah? When did you kiss James?” Steve wants to know.

“You remember the night, in the freshmen year, when we were at their house for a party? You got fucked up on two sips of beer and they came home with us, because the party kinda sucked with all the seniors there? They were making out with that pretentious goth guy?” Bucky tries to jog his memory.

““Edgar Allan Hoe”,” Steve says around a snort.

“Yes! That night! So, we got you home and in bed and we talked and then they kissed me. I was never into them that way, but it didn’t matter: after we kissed, they told me they were into you,” Bucky says, shrugging.

“Ouch, though. Why did they kiss you in the first place?” Steve asks, but he doesn’t look like he expects an answer, so Bucky doesn’t supply one.

Yawning, Bucky makes to lie down next to Steve. Steve lets him, moving out of the way to make room. Bucky reaches for his hand, to pull him down next to Bucky, but Steve just puts his hand to Bucky’s face for a minute and then gets up, stretching.

“You can stay, you know? Wouldn’t be the first time we share a bed,” Bucky says.

Steve’s mouth flattens into a straight line and then he’s back on the bed, except he’s sitting on the very edge of it. Bucky, on high alert, sits up immediately.

“Buck, tonight made me realize something. I’m going to talk it through with you this time, though, instead of just forcing my views down on you with my behavior. I feel like we totally have the capacity to communicate, you know?” Steve says.

Bucky, groaning internally, nods.

“Great! So, I feel like you and I are best friends – and that’s how we function best. We’re better for each other when there are no complicated feelings involved. You know what I mean?”

Feeling more and more deflated by the second, Bucky just wants to be left alone. He says he understands. He tells Steve he’s happy to be his friend and that he’ll always have Steve’s back, because – and this part he obviously doesn’t say – he doesn’t know who the fuck he’d be if he wasn’t Steve’s Bucky. Steve pins Bucky with one of his cover-boy smiles and hugs him.

Bucky wishes he was dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The looooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooong haul to the end of the line.


	5. A: Base Motive/Refrain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like waxing lyrical for a moment, so bear with me. I had trouble starting this fic, friends, because Stucky/SteveBucky wasn't my ship. I was a die-hard FrostIron shipper at the time. Somewhere along this long haul, however, I found my love for probably the most beautiful ship in the world. So, absolutely stay tuned for more adventures with these two. Not in this series or this AU, but definitely more of them. 
> 
> This is the last chapter of the best story I have ever written. I hope you all enjoy it. It's been such hard work, but I feel like it absolutely paid off. If you're reading this fic without the background of the initial two-part FrostIron story, you can read those two fic for more a continuation of their time at varsity together, though you only really get to know them in the second fic. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this and that it brings you at least half as much joy to read as it brought me to write. 
> 
> Love - forever,  
> xx

They disappear like ghosts. One day, they’re at school – and the next their house stands empty like no one has lived there for months. No sign of any human life. The house even smells vacant.

“Did they say nothing to you?” Bucky asks Steve, hands in the pockets of his jeans.

“Not a single fucking word,” Steve says, picks up one of the decorative driveway stones and throws it with all his might at a window. The window shatters spectacularly.

Bucky follows suit. Pretty soon, they have every single window of Leland Manor broken. They call for an Uber and go wait by the front gates, which is half a mile from the house. On their way, Bucky takes Steve’s hand. Steve slings his arm around Bucky’s shoulders, holding fast to his hand. They walk, leaning into each other, sharing Bucky’s cigarette. Steve’s wearing one of Bucky’s vintage David Bowie shirts and black jeans torn at the knee and yellow Vans and circular rose-gold sunglasses. Bucky’s wearing Steve’s paint-splattered denim jacket and a Joy Division tank top. He wears his nails painted black all the time now. His sunglasses are a pair of custom Ray Bans Steve designed and had made for his birthday.

“You know, I can’t believe your punk ass looks better in my jacket than I ever did,” Steve says, as they settle in to wait for the Uber.

“Well, tou-fucking-ché, because that is _my_ vintage Bowie shirt and it’ll probably never work on me again, because you and your fucking runway-vibes fucked up its entire _feng shui_ ,” Bucky hits back.  

“In _my_ defense, its _feng shui_ was greasy-gay-punk and it deserved far better than that.”

Bucky yanks hard on Steve’s arm. “Take it back.”

“I said what I said.”

Bucky leans against the dead electric fence, staring himself nearly blind – despite his sunglasses – at the sky for a moment. Then, he turns to Steve, their faces only an inch apart in their current position.

“You can keep it. I have three others. You can keep that one and take it with you to college at the end of summer,” Bucky says.

Steve rests his temple against Bucky’s forehead.

“I wish I was taking you with me,” he admits to Bucky, eyes closed.

Bucky pulls him around, so they’re face to face. He takes both of Steve’s hands in his, then, knotting their fingers together and keeping Steve close enough so Bucky can be enveloped in his smell until the exact moment Steve leaves. He’s going to miss Steve like fucking crazy. Five years now, they’ve lived together. Before that, they’d been around each other as much as humanly possible, anyway, since they were four. Fourteen years of friendship. Fourteen years of sharing damn-near everything. It’s going to be hell – worse than any kind Bucky’s faced up until now, except maybe when he lost his parents. He doesn’t know how he’s going to live in the Rogers’ house without Steve, not to mention the trillion other things they share.

“We can FaceTime whenever you have a spare minute. Text in between. I’ll write your philosophy essays for you,” Bucky’s mouth quirks up at the left corner as he says this, “and you can send me your cartoons to narrate. Before you know it, the year’ll be over and I’ll somehow, miraculously, have gotten into the best school in the world. Do you think I could challenge the admissions office to a fist-fight? I have no clue how else I’m going to make it in.”

Steve chuckles in that way where Bucky just knows his eyes are sparkling like sapphires behind his shades. Bucky smirks, too. Steve takes off his sunglasses for a second, to wipe at the sweat that accumulated under the nose-rests. When he has them back on, it’s like he suddenly becomes aware how close he and Bucky are together. Bucky pulls him even closer, hands in their favorite place – on Steve’s flawless hips. Steve returns the sentiment by draping his wrists around Bucky’s neck. They may as well have been making out, for all the space there is between them.

“Explain to me again why we’re better off _not_ dating?” Bucky asks, purposefully speaking as close to Steve’s mouth as possible.

Steve flattens himself against Bucky almost entirely, leaning them both against the fence. He pulls his face away from Bucky’s, but Bucky can feel his breathing get ragged.  

“Because I’m a hot mess, and you should be sick of my shit by now,” he responds.

Bucky finds Steve’s eyes through their sunglasses and forces him to look at Bucky again. Instead of breathing near him this time, Bucky full-on presses their mouths together.

“Hot is right,” he says, kissing Steve.

Steve kisses him back, their lips like burning oil together.

“Bucky, I leave soon…”

Bucky reaches down and picks Steve up off the ground and then turns them so Steve is propped against one of the fence’s support-beams. His fingers are already tangled in the hair on Bucky’s shoulders as he makes desperate, strangled half-objections to Bucky leaving hickeys down his throat.

“All the more reason to spend our time wisely, don’t you think?” reasons Bucky, near-contorting himself to kiss down to Steve’s stomach.

“ _Bucky…_ ” he whines. “Ah! _Please?_ ”

Bucky puts him down in a single swift, graceful movement and kisses him until he’s sure Steve can’t stand without help anymore.

Oh, how happy he is to be wrong.

It’s Steve’s turn to press Bucky to the fence and work the jacket off Bucky’s shoulders. Bucky’s legs give out entirely when Steve somehow gets his knee in between Bucky’s legs and digs his nails into the taut muscle of Bucky’s shoulder blades, all at once. Bucky’s inability to get his footing back results in Steve’s leg pressing into Bucky in a way he’s only ever delivered, but never received.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he gasps into Steve’s mouth.

Steve toys with the button on Bucky’s jeans, driving him absolutely rabid.

“You’re not being fair, Buck,” Steve whispers into Bucky’s ear.

Bucky opens his mouth to answer, but Steve is a step ahead and brings his leg up a little. Bucky can only whimper.

“I’m leaving and you’re making it so… _hard_. I can’t do this with you. I can’t do this _to_ you, baby.” And none of this is helping. Steve’s breathing against Bucky’s ear is sending violent wracks of pleasure through Bucky from one end, and his knee against Bucky’s groin is doing the same from another end. Bucky physically lost consciousness for a full second when Steve called him “baby” in a voice so low and full of want that it could only sound like Steve was savoring every single thing about that word.

“You were begging me for it just a minute ago,” Bucky chokes out.

Steve’s fingers slowly inch into the front of Bucky’s boxers. Mother _fuck_ , he can’t take much more of this. It’s right then that his body starts betraying him again, rising forward into Steve’s touch. Steve chuckles into Bucky’s ear – and suddenly Bucky’s so hard he can’t even keep track of himself anymore.

“You want to keep running your mouth, Barnes?” Steve teases.

“I liked the other b-word better.” What the ass is his brain _doing_?

Steve pulls back only far enough to kiss him again. Bucky is too out of it to kiss back, every last scrap of his attention riveted to Steve’s thumb tracing tiny circles just below the waistband of his underwear. Bucky wants him so bad he could cry. His fingers are cutting themselves bloody around the old charge carriage wires of the fence. Steve sighs and pulls his hand back out. Behind him, the Uber shows up. Bucky can’t breathe.

And Steve sits a mile away in the car, but Bucky isn’t deterred. Not by a long shot.

 

The bell rings, signaling the end of the second to last period of the day. Bucky scrambles to get his shit together. He’s in a mad rush to the gym. He promised Steve and the guys he’d take charge in setting everything up. Almost out the door, he’s stopped by Dr. Wilson – who is looking yummy enough today to take part in the festivities the seniors have planned for last period.

“Not…so fast, Mr. Barnes. I have a question about your homework,” he says, pressing a hand to Bucky’s chest. His almost skintight printed button-down and low-riding maroon jeans killed Bucky all period. During his explanation of the senior syllabus, Bucky had spent the time daydreaming about putting on the teacher’s glasses and screwing his brains out against the whiteboard. What Bucky wouldn’t give to have those pouty, Tom Hardy lips wrapped around his…

“Mr. Barnes?”

“Fuck… I mean, sorry. Yes, you were saying, sir?” Bucky stammers, mortified.

“Preoccupied, are you?” the teacher asks, with a knowing smirk.

“A little, sir. I have somewhere to be, actually.” Then, a stroke of pure genius hit Bucky like a bolt of lightning. Man, Steve wishes he was this creative. “If your question about my homework is super pressing, though, I can always give you my number and you can text me? Sorry, sir, it’s just I promised to help with the Senior Day shit in the gym – and by “shit” I meant festivities.” What is it about hot guys that makes him run his mouth so badly? He really _does_ need to get his shit together.

Entirely neutrally, Dr. Wilson pulls his phone out of his pocket, unlocks it and hands it to Bucky. Bucky does the same, resisting the urge to make any of the suggestive comments currently ruling his brain, by biting on his bottom lip. The purpose of this is entirely defeated when the teacher catches this and his eyes linger, for just a nanosecond, on Bucky’s mouth. They swap numbers, and with a last smile, Bucky dashes for the gym.

Out of the corner of his eye, Dr. Wilson spots a girl from Bucky’s class – Brianna Evans. When their eyes meet, she gives Dr. Wilson a once-over and then declares, “I ship it,” before ambling in the direction of the gym. The teacher tugs at his shirt collar, suddenly a little warm.  

“Bucky!” Steve yells, when he stumbles into the locker room, running almost directly into Arden Gilmore.

“Sorry!” Bucky says, both to Arden and Steve. “I got held up by Wilson. I think I either fucked up my homework or he wants to fuck me – jury’s out on that one.”

“We’re going to be late. Can you get the music and the lights and shit ready? Your crew is waiting for you upstairs,” Steve says, buttoning up a starched white shirt.

Bucky moves closer and helps him and then helps him with his clip-on bowtie. When he’s done, he stands back to look at Steve. It’s ungodly how hot he looks in that tuxedo – even more ungodly that it’s a $12 000 suit, MADE to be disposable. It’s still not as pretty as the one he wore for prom, though, except Bucky might be biased, since he was Steve’s date. Steve wouldn’t let Bucky call it a date, but he had gotten Bucky a corsage and told him he looked beautiful.

“As far as I know, it’s illegal,” Bucky says.

Steve frowns.

“To have artwork so far from the museum, I mean,” Bucky adds, laughter in his eyes.

Steve scans the locker room and, upon finding it empty, he pulls Bucky to him and kisses him hard enough to make Bucky stop breathing. All Bucky can do is try to keep from groping Steve too badly and messing up his clothes.

“Get out there,” Bucky says, when Steve pulls off him. “If every single girl in that gym isn’t pregnant by the time you’re finished, then they clearly weren’t fucking watching.”

“Oh, Bucky,” Steve says, tugging on his jacket and checking his hair in the mirror. “Haven’t you put it together yet? For a long time now, it’s not only been girls I’ve made look.” As he says this, Gary Aimes walks in and Steve winks at him. Aimes visibly swoons and then shakes his head and walks back out.

Bucky finds his crew waiting impatiently, but they all seem to relax when he walks up to them smiling. He sets them all to work and says he’ll be at the soundboard if anyone needs him, but they should try not to need him. They all switch on their walkies and scatter. Bucky pulls out his iPod and starts skipping through it, finding the song they’re using. He smiles when he finds it, hoping beyond hope Principal Howard has a sense of humor and doesn’t expel them all.

A minute before everything is meant to start, the lights are switched off. Bucky presses play on the song and the pounding sound of a racing heart counts everyone in. Spotlights find the boys as song the starts. Then, children, it is time for sin – and not a single person in that room is exempt. Steve had asked their mom to make sure the choreography is ludicrously filthy.

They gyrate and grind and pop and lock and even twerk and dip it low and just when you accept your slow descent into hell, they all rip their shirts off. They back into tight formation and essentially imitate an orgy, moving like one mass, hands pushing down their own torsos and coming to rest on the front of their pants. The girls definitely scream. Steve is having the time of his life, thrusting and pulsing forward in the midst of a throng of horny teenage boys.

Bucky spots Principal Howard sitting next to Dr. Wilson. Both of them are looking incredibly uncomfortable, but only because they don’t seem to know what to do with themselves. The principal deals with his discomfort by jamming along to the music – which, essentially, is a gay guy singing about bottoming for his dom-boyfriend – and Dr. Wilson just cleans his glasses furiously, sneaking a peak here and there. Bucky can’t stop laughing.

The real dancing happens after the bridge and Steve is absolutely the best dancer there. The moves look so natural on him that he could have been making them up on the spot. Bucky thanks God for Emma Sanchez on lighting, because the light is coming from directly above them, casting all of Steve’s muscles into sharp relief and making every single movement visible. Bucky is transfixed by the way Steve’s muscles pull and ripple and stretch and compress. By the end of the dance, when the final synth sounds die out, Bucky _definitely_ has a boner. Like, he can’t even euphemize it. He’s never been so grateful that the guys had gone first, because he can use the girls’ number to calm down. With utter and complete amusement, Bucky watches as Dr. Wilson inconspicuously leaves with the senior boys.

The girls are all dressed like 50 Cent and Snoop Dogg wannabes and their dance is decidedly more tasteful than the guys’. Mrs. Rogers had helped with choreography there, too, and the technique is crazy. Bucky applauds in earnest by the end.

After this, everyone gets themselves dressed and respectable for the graduation ceremony. It’s only in an hour, so Bucky walkies his crew and tells them all to meet back up fifteen minutes before showtime. Tara Laurent calls back to say she got killer video of both numbers and also that she’s almost convinced Ella Noonan is gay. Bucky snorts as he heads back down to the locker room.

“So?” Steve says, throwing his arms out. “How was it?”

“You were off the entire second half,” Bucky says.

Steve throws a bundled-up towel at him and Bucky smiles.

“Tara says she has killer footage of the routine and she somehow put together, while watching the girls dance, that Ella’s gay. I mean, I’ll be real with you and say I don’t think she’s wrong?” Bucky says, sitting down on the little island bunk in the middle of the room.

“Ella Noonan is so gay her mom probably had a virgin birth,” Steve assesses.

Bucky laughs.

“Your speech ready?” he asks Steve, wiping tears from his eyes.

“Yup. I figured I’d run it through with you, but now I’m almost convinced I’m going to cry my eyes out and I am not going on that stage looking like a stoner after a gravity bong.”

“Fair. Do you know if I still need to go get Mom and Dad?”

“Nope. Dad got off at work and Mom, naturally, invited the entire class to be here and is probably getting a ride with one of them. As if I wasn’t nervous enough,” Steve breathing shallows slightly. Bucky reaches for his hand and puts it to his mouth to kiss the fingers.

“You’ll be fine, Stevie. Being the valedictorian is a big deal and no one deserves it more than you. I’ll be sure to sit up nice and high and if you feel like you’re gonna choke, you look at me, alright? You’ll be okay.”

Steve gives him a soft smile. “I love you, Buck.”

“I love you, too, Stevie.”

 

You know when you know it’s the last time you’re ever going to be able to do something? The last time you leave school for the day. The last time you wear your letter jacket to the Brooklyn McDonald’s as a high school senior. The last time you empty out your school bag at the end of the year, because from next semester onwards it won’t technically be school anymore.

The summer of 2012 is a summer of lasts for Steve. They rush by almost too fast for him to keep track of, but he started keeping a diary. He’d never tell anyone, but this is probably the sanest thing he’s ever done. His head becomes so much less chaotic when he can reason through it enough to write down coherent entries. It comes so naturally after a while that he can’t see himself going without it anymore. Bucky catches him at it one night, but he doesn’t say anything. Just asks what made the page that day. Steve decides to leave it for Bucky when he heads to varsity at the end of summer.

If anything, he wants Bucky to know how happy Steve is because of Bucky. He wants Bucky to understand how much he means to Steve. Steve isn’t always very good at expressing his emotions unless it’s creatively. So, the little, yellow, leather-bound book full of words and illustrations will be his legacy.

In it, he wrote of the day they spent at Coney Island. They’d done everything, from cotton candy and throwing up on the rollercoaster, to hotdogs and bumper cars. Bucky had somehow managed to win a giant teddy, which was close to illegal. He’d given it to Steve ‘to carry’, but he’d said it with a wink and it still sits on Steve’s bed after it’s made. Steve had made it through paintball without getting hit once. Bucky threw a paintball at him when he got off the course, just for being so fucking clean. Steve had pulled the two of them together and when he came away, some of the paint on Bucky’s overalls had transferred onto Steve’s. They’d gotten back to Bucky’s shiny red convertible quite late, but neither of them were tired, and so took their time getting home. Bucky played Fall Out Boy on the radio and Steve held his hand the entire drive, except when he had to change gears. They’d stood on their parents’ porch before letting themselves in, just savoring the summery night and the bright moonlight for a last moment before turning in for the evening. The silvery light had turned Bucky into a black-and-white movie, his hair making him look like Jack White. Steve had saved that image in his head and drawn it on the page next to that day’s entry. He’d wanted to kiss Bucky, then. He’d wanted to tell him he loved him more intensely than any star in the night sky could burn. He hadn’t written any of that down. He couldn’t do that to Bucky.

He’d also written about the day they’d finally finished their dad’s workshop. They’d set up the last of the machinery and then they’d had to clean everything. They’d started out in old jeans and vests, but by the time they had to head out for cleaning supplies, Bucky had been without his vest and his entire body had been glistening with sweat. Steve had to force himself not to look, or he probably would’ve said something. They’d spent two hours at Walmart, trying to find wood-safe cleaning products. Two of the aisle attendants had tried to help them, but Steve had accidentally started off his request by saying he had a lot of hard wood and that’d been it – they’d gotten nothing coherent out after that. It’s been boner joke upon boner joke for two hours. They’d gotten home in such a state that Mrs. Rogers had accused them of being high or drunk. She’d demanded to smell their clothes, which had gotten Bucky into such deep trouble, because he smelled like cigarette smoke. Mrs. Rogers had confiscated his smokes and told him that if she ever caught him smoking again, she’d make him eat them. Outside, Steve had continued their godawful pun-feud and asked Bucky if that meant that Bucky is smokin’. Bucky had said he guessed it did, but does that mean he has to eat it now? Steve had responded by asking what “it” he’d been referring to. Bucky had shrugged and said probably what started all that.

“My hard wood?” Steve had said.

“Oh, God,” Bucky had groaned, but he’d still been smirking when they went to finish up with the workshop.

When they’d finally revealed it to Mr. Rogers, he’d outright cried. He’d hugged both his sons and kissed them both in happiness. Bucky had smiled so big when Mr. Rogers kept saying he had the best sons ever.

“My boys, Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers, built their old man the most beautiful workshop anyone anywhere could’ve asked for!”

The smile on Bucky’s face had frozen, then, a little.

“What’s up, Buck?” Steve had asked, a hand on Bucky’s shoulder.

Bucky had shrugged and said it was nothing, but that night he’d confided in Steve that he doesn’t feel as much like a Barnes anymore. He’d always felt, at least in part, like a Rogers. The last year or so, he’d felt more like one than ever. He just doesn’t want to disrespect his parents’ memory. Steve had caved, then, and had lied down with Bucky in his arms, both their chests bare and damp from the showers they’d each had. He’d told Bucky that he doesn’t see that as disrespect at all, but as finding a place where Bucky feels he belongs. To Steve, Bucky is as much a part of the family as Steve’s parents. Bucky will always be an honorary Rogers. Steve hadn’t added how he would make Bucky an official Rogers in a heartbeat, but he had cried about it after Bucky had crawled into his own bed that night.

He'd written about the day James had shown up on their doorstep, unannounced. They’d looked like hell, but they’d smiled when Steve answered the door and threw themself at Steve to hug and kiss him in greeting. Bucky had come ambling down the stairs, incredulous as all hell. He’d been wearing only pajama bottoms and the engraved dog tags Steve had had his dad make for Bucky. James had greeted Bucky awkwardly – not nearly as enthusiastically as Steve. Bucky, the king of social graces, had asked James what they were doing there. James had asked if they could come in. So, Steve had made them all coffee. The boys’ parents had been out for the day, sorting out financing for Steve’s first year of studying. He’d won a scholarship, but there’d been a ton of paperwork and Mr. and Mrs. Rogers had to sign it. James had told them everything – how their father had made bail on a technicality and how they had to flee on a whim. They hadn’t been able to text Steve or Bucky, couldn’t bring themself to. They’d moved to California and started over: new names, new house, new lives. It’d gone really well, until it hadn’t. André, true to form, had fallen in with another bad crowd that side. Hallie and James had tried everything they could to get him away from them, but André had been a full-blown addict by then and didn’t want to be separated from his “friends”. Only a week ago, André had been gone for a fortnight with not even the best PI in the city able to find him. It’d been around 6 AM on a Tuesday when their doorbell had rung incessantly. When Hallie and James had both come downstairs, it abruptly stopped. They’d thrown open the door – and found André’s dead body on the welcome mat. There was no one else and no evidence of where he’d been. The autopsy revealed he’d died of an overdose and that he’d been raped multiple times prior to that. James had recounted all of this with a flatness to them, an emptiness. Bucky had recognized that emptiness. Steve could see that in how he’d gone over to James and pulled them into a fierce hug. James had stayed that night and the next, thawing their cold, broken heart where they felt warm and safe. They’d had as much fun as they possibly could have, given the circumstances. They’d cried when the taxi came to take them back to airport. Steve had kissed them one last time, wanting them to know they always had a home here. The two boys had waved James off.

Steve had been a little edgy, then.

“You okay?” Bucky had turned to Steve and asked.

“I’m, uh… I’m sorry if that was hard for you,” Steve had said, not really sure himself which part he’d been referring to.

Bucky had put a hand to Steve’s face, leaned in and kissed his forehead. “You did a good thing for them, Stevie.”

Steve had smiled.

And now it’s Steve’s last last. The last time he’d see Bucky in person until Christmas. Their parents are going with Steve for a week to get him settled in his dorm room, but Bucky had to hang back to house-sit and handle deliveries for their dad. To afford the boys a few last moments together, Mr. and Mrs. Rogers will be taking a taxi to the airport, while Steve and Bucky take Bucky’s convertible.

Bucky plays Nirvana this time, and Steve’s head rests on Bucky’s shoulder. The wind blows Bucky’s hair back, revealing his jaw and neck. Steve always thought Bucky would look hot tattooed. He wonders if he could convince Bucky to get just one. He’d even design it for him.

“Do you think they know?” Bucky asks, eyes on their parents’ taxi just ahead of them.

“I think they suspect, which is probably why Dad suggested we take a separate car,” Steve says, twining his fingers with Bucky’s.

“We’ll be okay, right?” Bucky sounds hollow. Like the wind is blowing through his bones and the sound of that is what formed the words he just said. He’s already pulling away, and Steve can’t blame him. He doesn’t want to be here, either. Steve nuzzles just a little closer.

“We have to be. We don’t really have other options,” Steve says, but now he sounds hollow, too.

“I guess…I mean, we could always find, um, distractions. Keep busy, so time passes faster. That’s… The social worker I saw when my parents died said to try that, so I don’t miss them so much,” Bucky suggests, his fingers nearly crushing Steve’s.

Steve lifts Bucky’s hand to his face and kisses it. Bucky’s vicelike grip relaxes. He casts a flicker of a look in Steve’s direction as an apology.

“That sounds smart, actually,” Steve agrees.

“Send me lots of sketches, though,” Bucky says. “Promise?”

“I promise. One every week. You have to send me a song a week, then, though,” Steve counters.

“Deal.” A hollow smile.

When they get to the airport, the taxi drops off Mr. and Mrs. Rogers by the door, but Bucky has to go find parking. They end up finding a spot pretty far from the entrance, which is really a sign, if you think about it.

For a full minute, they do nothing but sit there, each too scared to move and bring the pain closer. Then Steve does probably the gayest thing he’s ever done in his life: he opens the glove box and takes out the can of body spray Bucky keeps there for when he’s trying to mask the smell of smoke on his clothes – and sprays it all over the David Bowie shirt Bucky is letting him keep, and Steve’s wearing today. Bucky smiles so big, and then his eyes fill with so many tears that Steve can hardly make out the blue of them anymore. Steve shrugs off his paint-splattered denim jacket and drapes it over Bucky’s shoulders. To do this, he has to get pretty close to the other boy. When he’s done, he leans forward and kisses Bucky full on the mouth, tears and all.

Bucky kisses him back fiercely, crying throughout. Steve cries, too, hands fisted in Bucky’s shirt. Bucky’s hands are limp on Steve’s chest. They finally pull apart when both their phones buzz at the same time.

“Mom,” they say in unison, chuckling thickly.

“You can keep the can,” Bucky says, as they scramble out of the car.

“There’s a can of mine in the bathroom back home,” Steve says. “You know, in case you had the crazy urge to go full gay at any point.”

“You know, André and I were always convinced that you’re gayer than me,” Bucky says, hauling Steve’s luggage out of the trunk while Steve gets a discarded cart from the walkway.

“Was it the pastel or the crazy sexual tension between us that gave it away?” Steve quips.

Bucky snorts, lifting the two trunks onto each of his shoulders. Steve gapes shamelessly. Bucky sets them down, one on top of the other, on the cart, and then he pulls his shirt back down. He smirks at Steve’s expression.

“You need some help there, Stevie? Picking your jaw up off the floor, I mean,” Bucky offers, mockingly, as he starts to wheel the cart to the entrance.

“You know what? Fuck it. Bucky, that was so hot, what the shit,” Steve says, impressed.

“Think of it as a parting gift.”

“Good luck for the year ahead.”

“Now you’re getting it.”

And then their seats are booked and they’ve all had lunch together, Steve and Bucky holding hands at the table, in full view of their parents who say nothing. When it becomes time for them to board, Bucky walks them to the gate. Mr. and Mrs. Rogers kiss Bucky goodbye and tell him to be good. Mr. Rogers whispers in Bucky’s ear not to smoke in the house. Bucky nods microscopically. They head on through, leaving Steve and Bucky alone.

Bucky closes his eyes, fighting back tears with every last ounce of resolve he possesses.

“I will fucking punch you in the face if you cry,” he says, savagely.

“Jeez. I’m sorry,” says Steve, sniffing.

Bucky’s eyes fly open. “No! I was talking to myself. I’ve already cried. I’m not doing the whole teary goodbye thing. This isn’t a fucking Disney movie.”

“Nothing wrong with a good Disney movie,” Steve says, pulling Bucky to him by the front of his shirt.

They kiss, tenderly and wistfully.

“Excuse me?”

They almost jump apart. Right next to them is a lady, hand-in-hand with a toddler. She’s frowning up at them furiously.

“Can you two control yourselves? There are _children_ present,” she says, looking from Steve to Bucky.

“Sorry, Ma’am,” Steve says, lifting Bucky’s hand up to his waist, from where it rested on the waistband of Steve’s jeans. “Bucky, can you at least _try_ not to shamelessly grope me in public?”

“I’m _so_ sorry, Ma’am. Must be my raging teenage hormones,” Bucky says and pulls Steve in for another kiss.

The woman makes a sound of derision, but doesn’t interrupt them again. Over the AP-system, the last call to board for Steve’s flight sounds. Without any further agony, Steve departs with a last smile. Bucky smiles at him until he disappears from view.

Back at the entrance of the airport, Bucky’s still fine. Halfway to the car, it starts: the stabbing pains in his chest. By the time he reaches the driver’s side door, Bucky can’t see or hear. He can’t even fumble the door open. Instead, he collapses with his back against the side of the car. He sits there for hours, unconscious for most of it. He needs help. He doesn’t have his medication with him and he doesn’t have anyone he can call, either. Unless…

“Mr. Barnes?”

“Doc–” heave. “Wilson!” choke.

“Are you alright, Bucky? Where are you? Where is your family?”

“Airport,” he manages. He tries to get as much air in himself as he can. “Come…help…me…” He ends the call and fumbles his location to Wilson through text. Then, he blacks out again.

Somewhere, over the Atlantic Ocean, in the duskiness of a plane cabin full of sleeping people, Steve is staring out the window, his shirt pressed to his nose to inhale Bucky, while tears silently roll down his cheeks in a never-ending stream.

 

“Bucky? BUCKY?! _BUCKY!_ ”

“Sshhh–” cough. “Sshhh…”

“Fucking hell, Bucky. What do I do? What’s happening? Please, tell me you aren’t having a heart-attack?”

Bucky grabs him by the front of his shirt and pulls him in. When their lips meet, Bucky inhales. It almost doesn’t work, but Bucky feels his throat give a little. Dr. Wilson also gets it and starts blowing air into Bucky. Half an hour later, Bucky is back on his feet and dusting himself off. Wilson looks bewildered as all hell, standing there with his hands on his hips and his glasses smudged and his carefully styled hair a mess. Bucky grins sideways to himself.

“Since we basically just made out, I feel like I owe you dinner, or at least a cup of coffee?” Bucky says, slowly turning to face Wilson full on.

“Even just a bloody explanation would suffice!” he responds, gesturing wildly. He then appears to compose himself, sighs and says, “But coffee would be lovely, thank you.”

“Can you follow me in your car? This is mine,” Bucky says, opening the driver’s side door.

Wilson’s eyes widen at the convertible, taking it in appreciatively. He pulls an impressed face.

“It’s nice. Sure, I’ll follow you.”

Bucky drives them to the hotel he night-manages for and winks at the valet – a sweet girl named Samantha who’s had a crush on Bucky since the moment she first laid eyes on him – and she agrees to park both cars. He gives her a one-armed hug and kisses her cheek before calling her a doll and thanking her. Wilson catches up with him in the lobby. Bucky doesn’t wait for him and heads straight for the canteen.  

“Bucky? Don’t you have the night off?” Eric, the on-duty host, asks when Bucky throws the doors open. Eric then spots Wilson and his expression changes. “I’ll bring two menus, shall I?”

“You’re my favorite, Ricky,” Bucky says, heading up the stairs to his favorite table. Wilson is still scurrying to keep pace.

When they’re finally seated, and their coffee orders are in, Wilson finds his voice again: “Alright, can you please tell me what the fuck is going on?”

“Ooof, is that how you speak to a student, Dr. Wilson?” Bucky teases, his eyes glinting mischievously. He pulls his cigarettes out of his pocket and then pops the window to his left open. It’s as he lights up that Wilson responds.

“Well, it’s as you said, we did basically just make out. So, I feel like we should just suspend all disbelief for the evening, don’t you?”

Bucky chuckles on the exhale, aiming his smoke out the window.

“I had a panic attack. You saved my life. Might as well make the ‘w’ in Wilson stand for ‘Who’ now. I’ll even let you ride in my DeLorean at some point,” Bucky says.

He blushes. Even in the dimness, Bucky sees this. Wilson takes off and starts cleaning his glasses.

“Are all you panic attacks that severe? Also, do you not have medication for them?”

“Yes and yes. I just didn’t pack my meds today, because I was at the airport to see off my family. They’re flying Steve to Switzerland for varsity. Besides, they don’t work when it’s that bad, anyway. I should have taken them the moment it started.” With every inhale and exhale of smoke, Bucky feels more and more himself. Can nicotine work as a relaxant?

“Why didn’t you accompany them?” Wilson continues to cross-examine.

“Dad runs a custom furniture business from home and he has several deliveries and pickups this week. Someone has to be there to oversee them. Do you also want to know why I get panic attacks? The name and number of my therapist, maybe? How about my social security number?”

Wilson smiles for the first time that night. He’s so pretty it hurts. Not pretty like Steve is pretty – in his “I want to lick melted butter off your abs” way. No, more in a “you are far too beautiful to be this innocent” kind of way.

“I apologize for the twenty questions. I have just never been rung up at 2 AM to give someone CPR in an airport carpark before.”

“That’s fair. I just felt like I was doing all the talking. I never talk about myself. Freaks me out. So, how about we start with your first name? Or would you rather I stick to “Dr. Wilson”?” Bucky asks.

Eric himself brings their coffee and some of the hotel’s signature chocolate chip cookies. He winks at Bucky as he takes the coffee off his tray. Bucky grins back.

“Arthur. I’m from Cambridge, I have attacks quite similar to yours upon ingesting any form of nuts, I am damn-near blind without my glasses and I own a goldfish named Herbert,” Wilson shares, stirring sugar into his coffee.

For the first time, Bucky notices that Wilson – Arthur, he reminds himself – isn’t wearing a pressed shirt and blazer or a cardigan. Instead, he’s decked out in a bottle green t-shirt, faded jeans and Vans. Bucky doesn’t know which is hotter. He bets naked Wilson makes that decision moot.

““Herbert”, huh?” Bucky queries, picking up a cookie.

“My baby sister named him. She has knack for apt names. He looks like a Herbert.”

“I’ll be the judge of that. I won Steve a giant teddy bear once at Coney Island and it’s just a teddy bear, but to me it looked like a Luiz. Everyone we introduced the teddy to agreed. So, I’ll just have to meet your fish sometime,” Bucky says. The hot coffee burns its way down his throat, but he finally feels entirely himself. He doubts he’ll even need his meds tonight.

“Sounds in order. I’ll hear from Herbert when he’s free and text you,” Arthur plays along.

“Can’t wait.”

Arthur skips out on the cookies, trying to avoid possibly triggering his nut-allergy, but Bucky picks up the slack and eats all six. Arthur says it’s just well and that sugar can only help Bucky, at this point. Bucky puts a hand over his stomach and says it might help for shock, but not for his figure. Arthur’s eyes linger like that day in the hallway. When he meets Bucky’s gaze, he says he’s pretty sure Bucky has nothing to worry about. So, Dr. Wilson has an appreciation for fitted shirts, too, does he? Bucky takes note of this.

They talk all night. By the time they walk back to their cars, it’s dawn and the day-management has taken over. Bucky stretches, waiting for Leroy to bring his car around.

“Are you sure you’ll be alright by yourself?” Arthur asks, then.

“Should be. Unless you want to come over at some point and keep me company?” Bucky suggests.

Arthur’s expression changes. Some of the night’s fun drains out of it, making Bucky suddenly feel small. He doesn’t like it. The only person he’s ever comfortable feeling out of control with is Steve. With a body-wracking pang, Bucky misses him.

“Mr. Barnes, as, uh, enjoyable as last night was, I do feel obligated to remind you I am a teacher,” Arthur says, sounding every bit as reluctant as Bucky feels.

Following his gut, Bucky replies, stepping into Wilson’s space, “Does that mean you prefer to top?”

This catches him so off-guard, the breath visibly catches in his throat. Bucky gets in his car and drives home.

The emptiness catches up with him, then. He knows he’s headed to an empty house and that he’ll have to sleep in a room with Steve’s things and that he won’t even have anyone to talk to about it. He can’t cry to Steve, it wouldn’t be fair. As he drives, he considers putting on some music to sing along to, but every one of his CDs reminds him of Steve. So, he drives on in silence, technically going a little faster than he’s meant to, but only because the roaring of the wind is a music all its own.

He tries to distract himself by reliving his night with Arthur. Bucky is convinced the teacher likes him. He knows it’ll be tough going, precisely _because_ Arthur is a teacher, but they’ll just have to be careful. It’s not like the age-gap is astronomical. Arthur graduated high school early and he and Bucky differ about four years and some change. Besides, Bucky is technically legal and isn’t high school age anymore. He and Steve said they’d find distractions. Somehow, Bucky doesn’t think he’d mind Arthur that much. Either way, he’ll be honest with Steve from the start.

He goes through the McDonald’s drive-thru before heading home, and gets so much junk food that he’s in a food coma before he’s even eaten anything. At home, he parks his car in the garage and gets out before his nerve fails him. Inside, he goes straight to the guestroom and gets the mattress and bedding from there and makes a bed by the TV. Then, he steels himself and heads into his and Steve’s room. He decides to get undressed quickly, take clean pajamas and change in the bathroom after his shower. As he takes off Steve’s denim jacket and tosses it on his bed, something falls out of the pocket: Steve’s little yellow leather journal. There’s a piece of paper sticking out of it like a bookmark that has “For Bucky” written on it. Curious, he sinks down onto his bed and opens it.

Two hours later, all his resolve is shot and he’s lying back on his bed, sobbing his heart out. He ends up putting the journal under his pillow to keep from getting his emo slobber all over it. He’s never cried this hard in his life. Never ever. This is the single most beautiful gift he’s ever gotten. At some point, he pulls his phone out to check the time and sees a text from Steve. It’s a set of photos of his dorm room and campus. It’s all beautiful and Bucky was busy texting him back to tell him that, but then he caved and now he’s FaceTiming Steve, but with his camera flipped away from his face. Steve cannot see him looking like a melted marshmallow.

“Bucky!” he exclaims in answer.

“Hey, Stevie! Sorry my camera is turned away. I read your fucking diary, you dipshit, and spent an hour crying over it. I look like a s’more without the crackers.”

“But did you like it?” Steve asks, smiling his perfect smile that makes Bucky’s heart ache even from a thousand miles away.

“I _love_ it, Steve. This is the single most beautiful gift I’ve ever gotten. I love you so much,” Bucky says the last part before he can stop himself.

Steve looks down for a moment, but Bucky can see him blushing. Bucky’s blushing, too, and is so grateful he decided to use his back camera for this.

“I love you, too, Buck. So, so much. I’m super happy you liked the present. I’m still writing, but in a new diary now. I’ll send it to you when it’s full, or just bring all I have home over Christmas break,” Steve says.

Bucky notices the tears running down Steve’s face and decides he might as well. So, he flips his camera back to face himself and Steve lets out a short bark of laughter.

“I told you I looked like shit.”

“Bucky, you look like you haven’t slept at all. Did you stay up all night?”

“I, uh…It just, um, caught up with me really fast, and so I passed out in the parking lot. I managed to call Wilson. He saved me and he was a real gentleman about it, too. He let me take him out for coffee. We talked all night and then I got home at about 8 this morning,” Bucky recounts. He didn’t really want to tell Steve this, but he also doesn’t want their parents to put the wrong story together.

Steve looks incredibly guilty, but Bucky quickly puts him at ease saying it’s his own stupidity for not packing his meds like he’s supposed to. Steve still looks guilty, but he lets Bucky comfort him a little.

“So, was it just talking?” Steve asks, an edge of suggestion to his voice.

“For now, yes. When I left, he felt obligated to remind me that he’s my teacher. So, I asked him if that means he prefers to top. He looked so fucking shocked. Oh, man, I laughed.”

“Bucky, you can’t do that to people,” Steve says, suddenly stern. “You can’t just unleash all of yourself on them like that. No one stands a chance against that.”

“You do alright,” Bucky counters.

“I have years and years of anecdotal proof of you being a complete and utter doofus to level out my raging attraction to you,” Steve hits back.

““Raging attraction”, huh?”

“Man, is it still lost on you? I…” there’s a scuffle as Steve shuts himself in what looks like the bathroom, and then he whispers, “I had my fucking hand down your pants in public, you clueless, gay mess.”

“I figured you were just a sadist,” Bucky says.

“I wouldn’t rule that out.”

They both laugh.

Bucky feels marginally better when they hang up, managing to drag his ass through the shower and get into bed. His food sits discarded at his bedside for now, but he figures he has a week to get back to being human.

 

Two months into the new semester, and Steve and Bucky have fallen into an easy rhythm. FaceTiming once a day, whenever they can find some mutual time off, but if not, they text each other whenever and just accept the other will respond when he has time. Bucky sends Steve a recording of a song once a week and Steve sends Bucky a scan of a sketch in return. Bucky has Arthur print them for him with the faculty printer, so he can have them in color. Arthur does it for him with a smile; even once calling it super sweet and endearing and fishing about what Bucky sends Steve in return. So, one day, Bucky brought his guitar to school and played for Arthur during lunch in the band room under the gym. Arthur had called Steve one lucky guy.

Today, however, is Thursday and they have math last period. Today, Bucky has decided, he is making his first decent move. He’s knocking Arthur’s socks off, if it’s the last thing he does. So, when he hands back their quizzes from the previous class, graded and processed, Bucky pretends to look confused about his grade (solid B+, as always) and asks if he can possibly see Dr. Wilson after class.

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about the atrocious marks you’ve been receiving, Mr. Barnes,” Arthur says, convincingly.

Bucky looks sorry for himself.

The class speeds by, with Bucky making eyes at Arthur every time he looks in Bucky’s direction. Eventually, he just stops looking at Bucky altogether, instead blushing to himself the entire time. Bucky remembers what Steve had said that one day on the phone: about how he can’t just unleash himself on people. Bucky feels a little crappy for what he’s doing, but not for long.

The bell rings and everyone rushes to get out of there. This leaves Bucky alone with Arthur pretty quickly. Arthur packs up his shit at warp speed.

“A little uncomfortable there, Arthur?” Bucky says, making conversation.

“I just feel like the office they’ve allotted me would function much better for this conversation than a classroom I cannot lock and anyone can see into,” he says, but his voice does have an edge to it.

Bucky waits for him to finish and then the two of them head to Wilson’s office, Bucky doing a better job of acting natural than poor Arthur. Bucky begins to wonder from where his anxiety disorder hails, but shuts that line of thought down pretty quickly when he immediately concludes that you can’t reason with a diseased brain.

The teacher lets them both into his office and then shuts and locks the door behind them. Nervously, he sets his bag down on the desk and turns to face Bucky, rubbing his hands on his pants, his eyes wide behind his glasses.

“Arthur,” Bucky says, giving him a look, “we don’t have to do anything you’re not comfortable with.”

“I, um… Indulge me a moment, Bucky,” he says, shaking himself, and points Bucky to a chair on one side of the desk. Bucky sits down, drooping down in the chair until he’s comfortable, hands clasped together on his stomach. Arthur continues: “What exactly is it you want from me?”

Bucky thinks this over a minute, itching for a smoke. Arthur pulls an ashtray out of a drawer and Bucky smiles gratefully. He pulls out a smoke and lights it up, gathering his thoughts.

“Honestly,” Bucky starts and then drags, “a distraction.”

“Just someone to keep you occupied until you see Steve again?” Arthur verifies, emotionless.

“Not exactly. It’s not a tide-over, Art. I’m alone. I guess, above all, I’d like a friend. Is that okay?” Bucky asks.

Arthur nods before he speaks. “Fine by me. It’s not been easy adapting here by myself, so far from home. I’d like a friend, as well.”

“Then, we’ll be friends,” Bucky agrees.

Arthur nods again, looking far off.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Bucky says, taking another languid drag on his cigarette.

“Do I look like much of a bullshitter, Bucky?” Arthur asks, suddenly.

Bucky gives him a calculating once-over and then assesses, “Not in that shirt, you don’t. The investment banker print and slim fit definitely look like you mean business.”

As Bucky talks, Arthur’s eyes travel to Bucky’s midriff. Bucky realizes he’d subconsciously put his own hand up his shirt to scratch an itch or something. However, this time, Arthur doesn’t just glance and look away. He watches, transfixed. Bucky likes that – being watched. He leaves his shirt pushed up and drags his hand down to the waistband of his jeans. Arthur follows it, his breathing appearing slightly labored. After tugging on one of the beltloops lightly, Bucky pushes that selfsame hand up and through his hair. Arthur’s eyes meet his again.

Bucky drags on his smoke and through the cloud on exhale, he says, “You like to watch. Do you like to touch?”

Arthur gets, shakily, to his feet. He walks purposefully around his desk to stand in front of Bucky. Bucky stretches out an arm to him and he moves closer, until Bucky can touch him. He hooks his fingers into the waistband of Arthur’s jeans and pulls him all the way over and into Bucky’s lap. He looks like he’s on the verge of passing out, but he still splays his hands out on Bucky’s stomach. His hands are hot and sweaty and Bucky exhales slowly, heavily.

“Tell me, you this close with all your friends?” Bucky asks.

Arthur leans over, hands on the back of the chair, grinding down on Bucky who makes an unholy sound.

“I lied,” he answers, simply, his breath hot on Bucky’s neck. “I’ve had quite enough of you. So, either you learn to behave…”

“Or what?” Bucky pushes, undoing the buttons on Arthur’s shirt.

“Or we stop being friends,” he sets his ultimatum, shrugging out of his shirt.

“I’m surprisingly fine with those terms,” Bucky says, pulling off his own shirt.

Arthur is fit, but not nearly as muscled as Bucky. He takes Bucky in with reverence, running his fingers along every line he sees. Bucky has never been looked at that way before in his life – like he’s too beautiful to break. It makes him want to break Arthur – make him beg to touch Bucky this way.

“I think you’re the one who needs to be taught some manners, actually,” Bucky says, grabbing Arthur’s wrists.

“Should I have asked first?” he breathes back.

“You should have. So, now you don’t get to touch or to look,” Bucky says, pushing Arthur off him.

Arthur exhales unevenly and says, “Yes, sir. I apologize.” After which he drops his eyes the floor his entire neck burning red with shame.

Bucky puts their shirts to good use and ties one around Arthur’s eyes and uses the other to tie Arthur’s hands behind his back. Arthur obliges willingly, not saying another word. Bucky starts off by sucking near-bruises into Arthur’s skin all the way down to his belt. Arthur’s breathing deepens, but he stays quiet. It’s when Bucky puts two fingers inside Arthur’s underwear that he jerks slightly. Bucky pauses.

“What do you say?”

“Please, sir.”

Bucky undoes the button on Arthur’s jeans and pushes them down with his underwear. Suspicions confirmed, Bucky decides to take point on this one. He pushes Arthur back onto the desk, spreading his legs. He can tell Arthur is uncomfortable in his current position, but still the other man says nothing. Bucky cannot believe his luck.

 

It’s only a week and a half later that Steve finally has time to talk again. According to him, it’d been midterm week that side and they’d had test upon test and assignment upon assignment and he’d written so many essays that he dreams of them at night. But, today, he has big news to share. So, Bucky leaves Arthur in bed, quietly shuts the door and pads naked into the living room with his earbuds and phone.

“Good morning,” Steve says, looking like he just got up, too, even though it’s three hours later there.

“Morning, sleepyhead. You sleep in a little?” Bucky asks, lying across the couch.

“I mean, I guess. Does it count as sleeping in if you only really got to sleep at 3 AM?” Steve asks, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

Bucky yawns as he answers. “I guess not. Did you work that late?”

Steve sits down on the edge of the balcony and, over his shoulder, Bucky can see some of the campus – except it isn’t a part he recognizes. He’s asking Steve about it later.

“Not even. That’s what I wanted to tell you. I had to tell somebody…” he looks a little embarrassed, so Bucky chimes in to help him along.

“Listen, you have nothing to be embarrassed about. I am lying naked on Arthur Wilson’s couch and just last night, I blindfolded, gagged, and tied him to the bed post – and he thanked me for it. So, if anyone’s blushing today, it’s him.”

Steve laughs with so much abandon that Bucky just has to join him. When they’ve both gathered themselves, Steve slides down the balcony wall and brings the phone closer to speak quietly.

“I, um, slept with two girls last night – at the same time.”

Bucky’s mouth drops open. Varsity really changed Steve.

“In my defense, it wasn’t some sex-thing. We’re – all – sort of dating. I guess it’s not so “sort of” anymore, after last night, but, yeah. It’s me and Sharon and Maria and they’re happy together and Sharon and I are happy together and I guess Maria and I will grow on each other. I don’t dislike her – we just don’t have as much in common as Sharon and I,” Steve explains.

Bucky fixes his face, right as Arthur walks in.

“Well, first of all, I am genuinely happy for you. You know me, Stevie: if you’re happy, I’m happy. Secondly: wasn’t it, like, super confusing?”

Before Steve can answer, Arthur calls from the kitchen: “Is that Steve?” He walks over, a carton of eggs in his hand. “Wait. Are you _naked on my couch_???”

Steve and Bucky both crack up laughing. Bucky yanks out the earbuds and then holds out a hand for Arthur, who is looking well-done and majorly sleep-tousled. He puts down the carton of eggs and joins Bucky, leaning against him.

“Dr. Wilson,” Steve greets.

“Mr. Rogers. How’s university life treating you?”

“Pretty well, I’d say,” a female voice answers, off-screen.

“Ronni! We were just talking about you,” Steve says. “While you’re here, come meet Bucky.”

“The notorious Bucky Barnes. I’d love to meet him. Should I put on a shirt?”

“Don’t bother,” Bucky says. “I’m wearing absolutely nothing. So, you’re good.”

She flops down next to Steve and Bucky gets a good look at her. She’s really pretty: blonde, wavy hair and dark brown eyes. She has a super cute smile. She’s like the female incarnation of Steve, save for the eyes. Right now, she’s in her underwear, but she looks cold, so Steve takes off his shirt to give her. She kisses his cheek.

“So, since this is a party,” she says, “am I allowed to know who you’re with, Bucky Barnes?”

“This is my boyfriend, Arthur. Teaches me math at school and I teach him manners on weekends.” Arthur stiffens next to him and Bucky can feel, rather than see, him blushing. “Calm down, Art. There’s no judgement here.”

“Absolutely none,” Steve affirms.

“You’ll all have to excuse me. I’m too British for my own good sometimes.”

“It’s my favorite thing about you,” Bucky says, winking at him.

“Sod off, Barnes. I am trying to talk to your lovely friends.”

“Wait, Buck, you asked if it was confusing. A little, but Sharon here has tons of patience,” Steve answers Bucky’s question from earlier.

“He’s cute as punch. I couldn’t not have him,” Sharon says, looking at Steve dreamily.

Bucky doesn’t like it.

“Do you two want breakfast?” a different female voice asks, from off-screen.

“Yes, please!” Sharon and Steve say at the same time.

“Wait, I’ll come help!” Sharon calls and gets up. “It was cool to meet you, Bucky!”

“I, too, should start with breakfast. Are eggs on toast alright?” Arthur asks.

“Fine by me. I’ll come help in a minute.”

“No, no. You two haven’t spoken in over a week. You take your time,” he replies on his way back to the kitchen.

When they’re alone again, Steve says wistfully, “How’s this for being okay?”

Bucky tries to smother the coils of jealousy wrapping themselves around his intestines. “I still miss you, Stevie.”

Steve drops his voice to a whisper, too. “I miss, too, Buck. Every day. I’m almost home, though. Just a few weeks more.”

“I’ll send you your song later. I, um…wrote one, this week.”

Steve’s phone slips, but he gets a fast grip on it before it falls.

“ _You wrote me song?_ ”

“I did. It’s not very good, but Art thinks you’ll love it. I needed to test it out, get some feedback. I hope you don’t mind,” Bucky says.

“No, Buck, I don’t mind. I am so excited to get it. I also did a bit of an original drawing for you this week. I actually also showed Sharon, because she’s into art, too. She helped me with some of the coloring.”

“Then, I’m super excited, too. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

They end the call. Bucky lies there for another minute, hating himself as much as he ever has. He has no right – none at all – to be jealous. This was his idea. He also went for Arthur first. He needs to get his fucking head read.

In the kitchen, Arthur is just dishing up the food. He smiles as Bucky walks in.

“Listen, I really have no objections to you being naked in my house, but the island stools aren’t very comfortable on bare skin,” he says. “Might I suggest going back to bed?”

“A marvelous idea, Dr. Wilson,” Bucky says, mimicking his accent. He picks up his plate, grabs a mug of coffee and leans in to kiss Arthur. Arthur kisses him in earnest. He gets his breakfast, too, and the two of them head back to Art’s room.

While they’re eating, Arthur looks up at Bucky curiously for a moment, then says: “So, is that what I am to you? Your boyfriend?”

Bucky bites through a particularly crunchy piece of toast. It feels like his tooth cracks, but he stops himself from wincing.

“Is that what you want?” Bucky ends up asking, looking at his food.

“As far as I’m concerned, we’re together in some way or other, regardless. I know how difficult everything is for you.”

He reaches out to Bucky, but Bucky pulls away, disgusted with himself. He’s being such a fucking shithead about all of this. He just wants to fucking beat himself up, bash his own face in – SOMETHING. He’s so angry with himself.

“It should be hard for you, too!” he yells at Arthur. “I’m essentially using you. You know I’m not in love with you. So, why the fuck do you stay?” he drops his face into hands, the hyperventilation starting.

Calmly, Arthur pulls Bucky’s left arm to him and preps him methodically. A minute later, Bucky’s been given his meds and his chest clears up. Arthur keeps a hold of Bucky’s hand, though. He massages the fingers until Bucky’s so mellow, he could fall asleep.

“Art, that’s so…” he yawns.

“Are you feeling better?” he asks.

“Much. Thank you.”

Arthur pulls Bucky back onto the bed with him, carefully putting their plates on the nightstand. He wraps Bucky up in a tight embrace. Bucky notices him wince and pulls back.

“Did I hurt you last night?” Bucky asks, scanning Arthur worriedly.

He pulls off his shirt, revealing quite a few bruises and scratches and a nasty bite mark on his ribs. “Kind of the point, love.”

“You’re sure I’m not being too rough?” Bucky asks, eyeing the bite mark.

“Come here. Lie down and I’ll tell you a story.”

So, Bucky settles in, draping himself over Arthur’s chest. The older man knots his fingers in Bucky hair, playing with it and lulling Bucky even closer to sleep. When he starts speaking, it makes his entire chest vibrate. Outside, it starts to rain, and Bucky is so comfortable and warm and mellowed out on his anti-anxiety meds, he can even convince himself that he imagined being jealous earlier. Smoke fills the air and Bucky looks up to Dr. Wilson lit a cigarette. He takes a long drag and then passes it off to Bucky.

“When I arrived at Cambridge, I was fifteen and terrified. I had graduated high school with unparalleled marks in maths and English, but maths has always been my one love. I decided to major in that and entered the mathematics department as the youngest person there by several years. They don’t just let anyone in anymore. I had to prove myself, but once I did, I caught the attention of the previous prodigy they’d taken in: Dr. Gustavo Martinelli. He had a penchant for Da Vinci and strong coffee.

“Bucky, I was in love with him. I might have been fifteen years old and known absolutely nothing of the world, but in my own way I was head over heels for this man. Looking back, it was probably admiration, but that feeling caught fire when he touched me or complimented my theories or winked at me in the front row of his classes. He was the only person I’d ever wanted to see me.

“Two years passed, and he finally caught on. He saw me how I wanted to be seen – except there was no admiration there. He didn’t love me. He liked the idea of me. He took me to his office and he tied me to the wall and he fucked me until I couldn’t walk. I wanted him to – I cried myself to sleep every night, but I wanted him so close. If that meant a hand around my throat and bites instead of kisses, then that’s what I wanted. I was a boy possessed. Gustavo knew this. He knew how utterly obsessed and infatuated I was. It drove him insane. He got off on it. He got off on torturing me: bringing me to within an inch of what I wanted and then denying me any hope of ever getting it.” He pauses here a minute, to drag on the cigarette he’d given Bucky. Before exhaling and continuing his devastating story, he kisses Bucky’s forehead. Outside, the rain starts falling a little more forcefully. “I had a breakdown. He’d told me I was wrong in class when I wasn’t. He was. It was another game, but I’d realized too late. Or maybe I’d just subconsciously had enough. He’d told this girl she was right, but she’d said exactly what I did. Long story short, I’d gotten up and screamed at him. I’d told him he wasn’t worth a mathematician’s ass – and he was even worse in bed. I’d been escorted out by security and straight to the bloody loony bin.”

“I hope they fucking fired him. I fucking hope he suffered,” Bucky interjects there, sitting up partially. “Also, if anything we’ve done has been at all hurtful to you, Arthur, I am so fucking sorry. We can stop. We c–”

Arthur kisses Bucky. Bucky, caught off-guard, lets himself be kissed, until Arthur gasps. Bucky jerks back and realized he’d burnt him with the cigarette. He quickly rushes to put the smoke out in the ashtray on the nightstand and then he turns to tend to small burn on Art’s chest. But when he reaches out to touch it, Arthur grabs his hand. He gives Bucky a loaded look, his hazel eyes smoldering.

And then he says: “Please, sir?”

Bucky twists his hand around until he’s holding Arthur’s wrist. Arthur brings his other hand up, too. Bucky takes both Arthur’s wrists in one hand and throws his leg over Art’s torso.

“You’ll speak up if I do something you don’t like?” Bucky checks.

“I’ll stop you, I promise. It was never the pain I minded – it was the torturous denial. I can take delayed gratification, but I’m not built for torment. Not for the sake of torment, in any case.”

“So, what do you want?”

Arthur changes, then. He changes into the person he only becomes when he’s sure he can trust someone. He wishes Bucky would see this.

“I want you to hurt me. Please, sir?” he begs.

So, Bucky ties him up, and he fucks him until neither of them can see straight anymore, and he gives him another matching bite mark at his throat that ends up bleeding. Arthur loses his mind for it, though. And after, when they’re both in the shower before Bucky has to go home, he tells Bucky how Gustavo Martinelli faced no reprimand, but how Arthur was defended by his second love: Prof. Eloise Williams.

She taught him the difference between torment and anticipation. He left her to come find his way in the world. They talk once a month and she misses him dearly. When his parents had cut him off for the allegations against him, she’d taken him in and now she is his only family. So, Arthur understands what Bucky is going through.

He and Bucky can be each other’s distractions.

 

“It’s Christmas, Joe. Show a little spirit!”

“I’ve been eating nothing but Christmas cookies for two weeks now, Sarah. It doesn’t get more Christmassy than that!”

“If I have to eat one more Christmas cookie I’m setting myself on fire,” Bucky grumbles under his breath.

“You and me both, kid,” Mr. Rogers says, “but you know how your mom gets about Christmas. It’s her favorite holiday.”

“Which means it’s all of ours, too,” Bucky says with a fake-cheery grin.

“Now you’re getting it.”

Bucky has been on vibrate for days. Steve comes home today. He leaves to go pick him up from the airport in a few hours. The snow chains are already on the convertible’s tires (and have been for two days, but he’ll deny it when confronted). He’d begged their parents to let him be the one to go get Steve. In principle, they had no problem; they were just worried about the snow. So, he’d spent a crap-ton of money to have snow chains made for his car and he had the droptop weather-proofed. At least he knows the car can withstand the elements now.

“Bucky, honey, did you organize with the hotel in case the storm picks up?” Mrs. Rogers leans against the doorframe and asks.

“Yes, Mom. Eric is organizing us some food, too. My carry-on is in the car – with my meds and wallet. It’ll be fine,” Bucky reassures.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart! You know how I worry!” she says, swatting at him with her dishcloth.

“Love you, Ma!”

“Love you, too! You boys are my world!”

As per tradition, Bucky and Mr. Rogers watch football together and Mrs. Rogers brings them hot chocolate and homemade pie. Bucky’s favorite part is how she gets more riled up at the football than Mr. Rogers, her knitting frequently traded in for screaming at the TV. Bucky tries to laugh so she can’t see, which results in him almost cracking a rib at one point. Mr. Rogers gives him a look of concern, but Bucky shakes his head to indicate that he’s fine and they shouldn’t tipoff Mrs. Rogers.

Finally, the reminder on his phone signals that he has to go pick up Steve. He kisses and hugs his parents, puts on his boots and down coat and then heads for the garage. He has the car idle a while, to warm up the engine, and uses the time to search his car for his favorite White Stripes album. He finds it in its case, under the passenger seat. He used to have everything in so much order, but Arthur is too much of a genius to think about stuff like that.

Speaking of Art, Bucky sent him home to England for Christmas. His present to Arthur was a roundtrip plane ticket back to the UK to visit Eloise. First, Arthur had cried and hugged Bucky and called him the best friend he’s ever had – and then he’d promptly sucked Bucky off until Bucky practically exploded down his throat. Talk about paying it forward, eh?

When he gets to the airport turnoff, he texts his mom, like they agreed. So far, the storm is behaving. If it keeps this up, he and Steve can get home tonight, no problem. He chooses to see this as a sign: even God is happy he and Steve are together again. This is cemented in Bucky’s beliefs when he finds a parking spot right by the entrance. He wraps his coat tighter around himself when he gets out and pulls a beanie over his hair that he now wears tied back.

Bucky’s a little early, but figures he’d go get them some coffee from Starbucks and maybe a couple of gluten-free donuts. The barista asks him if he’s here to pick someone up and he says yes, his boyfriend. This gets him a sincerely happy smile and a “well, happy holidays to you both!” Bucky is more excited than ever.

Finally, it’s time, and he plants himself right by the barricade of the gate Steve’s meant to come through. He no longer cares if he looks desperate or stupid. He gets Steve back for three weeks and he’s damn well going to milk every second of it.

So, when Steve comes through the gate and sees Bucky and his face lights up the way Bucky dreamed, Bucky doesn’t see anything else. He ducks under the barricade and runs to him. He puts the food in Steve’s luggage cart and then throws himself at the other man. Steve hugs him back so tightly that Bucky thinks he dislocates a vertebrate. Bucky pulls back a little to kiss him, but Steve pulls away entirely – and then Sharon Carter steps around him to greet Bucky.

Bucky is about ready to dump both scalding cups of coffee on her.

Why the fuck is she here?

What the fuck was Steve thinking???

Bucky is so angry that it must feel like throwing yourself at a brick wall when Sharon hugs him, but she doesn’t seem at all put off.

“Is Arthur not with you?” she asks, scanning the crowd for him.

“I sent him home to England for Christmas, to visit with his family,” Bucky says, trying to convey his complete and total disagreement with the situation to Steve through looks alone.

Steve looks incredibly apologetic, but he doesn’t say anything.

They can’t even go straight to the car, because they have to stop off at the bathroom first, so Sharon can “freshen up”, and then hit Starbucks, because Bucky hadn’t gotten anything for her. Bucky doesn’t offer to pay. In fact, while they wait for her order, he downs his coffee and inhales a donut moodily, at one of the tables. Steve sits with a chair between them. Bucky could spit acid.

Outside, the storm now reflects his mood and has picked up tenfold. He pulls his phone out and calls their mom to let her know they’ll be staying at the hotel after all, but sees a text from her requesting that very thing. He sends her a thumbs-up emoji and a heart.

“Is this your car?” Sharon asks, eyeing the convertible.

Bucky ignores her and says to Steve, “Storm’s too bad to head home tonight. I organized a room at the Plaza. I can’t get two free ones, though.”

“Woah. Why do you get free rooms at the Plaza at all?” Sharon wants to know.

“Bucky is one of their night managers. Comes with a lot of perks. I’ll pay for another room,” Steve says, taking the car keys from Bucky. He pops the trunk and starts loading his and Sharon’s luggage. Bucky leans against the driver’s side door.

When they leave the airport, Bucky turns up the music to deter talking, but Sharon knows a lot about classic rock and turns the music back down to talk. Steve’s given her the passenger seat and squeezed himself in around the gearshift, in between Bucky and Sharon. Bucky’s thankful for that, at least. There’s a stretch of darkness between the airport and the city and in it, Steve takes Bucky’s hand, resting their twined fingers on Bucky’s leg. Bucky has a right mind to take his hand away, but figures Steve will probably have a good explanation for this and he should give the guy a break – especially since he missed Bucky, too.

At the Plaza, Eric dashes out to help them with their bags, while Sam takes Bucky’s keys to park his car.

“Steve brought a friend?” Eric whispers to Bucky.

“Can you accidentally push her down an elevator shaft?” Bucky asks.

“I can shove her in a shoebox single room?” Ricky offers.

“Perfect.”

So, that’s the arrangement, and they aren’t charged for the extra room. Except Sharon entirely misunderstands and thinks she gets the double room with Steve and that Bucky has been gracious enough to take the single room. Bucky groans internally, almost finding an elevator shaft to jump down himself. They dump their stuff and then meet up at the canteen. Sharon thanks Bucky for the lovely room with another hug.

Eric, the fucking saint, brings out three plates of steaming food for them as they sit down, figuring it’s late and they probably want to eat right away. He takes everyone’s drinks orders and then goes and gets that while they start in on dinner.

“It’s a pity we have to stay here tonight. I was looking forward to meeting your family, Stevie,” says Sharon, dousing her fries in ketchup.

 _Stevie_? Bucky vows to knock over her Coke Zero.

“You can never really plan anything with these storms,” Steve says. “Next time, though, definitely.”

Bucky finds this interesting.

“So, you’re only here tonight?” Bucky asks, conversationally.

“Unfortunately. I get on a connecting flight tomorrow to California. That’s where I’m from,” she says.

“Definitely next time, though,” Bucky says.

Steve kicks him under the table.

Dinner is boring, forced and rushed. They all finish up and then Bucky says he’s tired and is going to bed, but, really, he knows he won’t be able to sleep tonight. So, he’s going to the gym to tire himself out. He watches them disappear into the elevator and then motors straight for the pool. He punches in the code to his locker and changes into his swimsuit so fast, his foot gets stuck in his jeans and he tumbles to the ground. This pisses him off even more, but he just gets it done and gets in the pool.

His body almost entirely relaxes in the lukewarm water and he manages twenty laps with ease. It’s when he comes back around for lap number twenty-one, that movement at the edge of the pool catches his eye.

“You,” Bucky says.

“Me,” answers Steve.

“Is she coming, too?” Bucky asks, standing.

“No. She’s taking a shower and then reading until I come to bed. Bucky, I’m sorry,” Steve says. He pulls the peach-colored ski-hat off his head and runs his fingers through his hair.

Bucky swims over to him and reaches for his hand. Steve gives him a soft smile and sits down, cross-legged, by the edge of the pool. He used to do that a lot to watch Bucky swim when they were kids. It breaks through Bucky’s anger and makes him smile, too. He kisses Steve’s fingers. Steve puts that same hand to Bucky’s face.

“She’s just here because of the connecting flight. I honestly didn’t plan to bring her. I know this is meant to be our time together,” Steve says, quietly.

Bucky turns his head to kiss Steve’s hand again.

“I forgive you. I know I’m being a brat. I’m sorry, too,” Bucky says, looking sheepishly down at the water.

Steve’s hand moves down the Bucky’s neck and his thumb presses hard under Bucky’s chin. He looks back up at Steve.

“I’ll get you back for it, later,” Steve says, expressionlessly.

Bucky thinks back to his time with Arthur and responds with, “Yes, sir.”

Steve struggles to keep a straight face, then.

Steve leaves Bucky to his workout, saying he is quite tired from his travels. Bucky pushes himself up out of the water on his hands and kisses Steve’s cheek goodnight. Then, Bucky swims a few more laps before hitting the weights room. Eric comes to hang out for a while, handing Bucky a towel and a water bottle as needed. They talk and Bucky decides to vent a bit, because he really doesn’t want to go to bed feeling like this.

“So, she’s Steve’s girlfriend?” Eric asks.

“Yes. I mean, she thinks so. I don’t know about Steve. He likes her and they’re sleeping together, but so am I with Arthur and he and I aren’t dating,” Bucky says, in-between presses.

“Okay, but is Steve your boyfriend?” Eric asks, frowning.

“Yes. Definitely. I guess, sort of. I haven’t asked him yet, but it’s really just a formality at this point.”

Eric hands him the towel that’s become damp from Bucky’s sweat. “Man, I think you two need to talk. This girl leaves tomorrow and then the two of you have a nice long drive back to Brooklyn. So, I suggest you cut the bullshit and ask him straight-up what he wants. I have known you for a couple years now, bro, and you have always been all about Steve. I think you loved that boy since the moment you met him. He love you, too. Neither of y’all getting any younger, so it’s time to make it official, I think.”

“I think so, too. It can’t be worse than this. Besides, varsity keeps him plenty busy and I’m headed into my last semester of high school. We don’t need our ‘distractions’ anymore,” Bucky says that last part more to himself than Eric, but Ricky gets it and slaps him on the back in a brotherly gesture.

Bucky hits the showers and then his room. When he switches on the lights, he finds none other than the pastel slut himself sitting on the bed, still dressed in his day clothes.

“Well, hello,” Bucky says, shutting the door, ditching the bathrobe and padding to his duffle in just a towel.

“Bucky, can we talk a minute?”

Bucky freezes for just a second, but then turns around gives a resounding “yes.”

“I just had something to a–”

“No, Stevie, I meant “yes, I’ll go out with you”,” Bucky clarifies, smiling softly.

That’s it, then. Bucky could practice drawing for the rest of his life and never be good enough to capture the absolute radiance of Steve’s smile. He gets up and crosses the room in two strides of his long legs and then he’s wrapping Bucky in a hug and Bucky’s pulling him so close and they’re both crying and kissing and crying some more. Distantly, Bucky wonders if he’d possibly have been happier if Steve had asked him to marry him instead. He doubts it. He doesn’t think his body could contain that much happiness. He’d spontaneously combust.

“No more distractions,” Bucky says, when they finally manage to stop clinging to each other.

“None. I’m so sorry she’s here, Buck. God knows, I missed you every waking moment of every day and nothing I ever did made that go away, so what is even the point in wasting our time with other people?” Steve says and then kisses Bucky fiercely.

“I love you,” Bucky says, taking Steve’s face in his hands and peering into his eyes.

“Forever,” Steve returns. Then, he reaches out and switches the lights back off.

“Is the great Armani model, Steve Rogers, shy of a little exposure?” Bucky jokes, dropping his towel and kicking it aside.

“No,” he turns the lights back on. “Neither are you, it seems.”

“It’s a layer of confidence you never dream of gaining, having someone beg you to do them. Besides, I do not spend half my fucking life in a gym to hide this perfection away,” Bucky says, gesturing down at himself.

Steve takes in all of Bucky before meeting his eyes again. “Perfection is right.”

“So, those two girls teach you anything new?” Bucky asks, walking over and pulling Steve’s shirt over his head.

“Would you be surprised to learn I taught them a thing or two?” Steve asks, kicking off his shoes and then his jeans.

“No. I pulled a move of yours on Arthur once.”

“Yeah? Which one?”

Bucky flattens his hand, pointing down, on Steve’s stomach and slips two of his fingers into Steve’s boxers. Steve chews on his bottom lip, staring down at Bucky’s hand.

“Is this when he started begging?” Steve asks, his voice throaty and low.

“Pretty much. Why? Are you getting ideas?” Bucky asks, matching his tone.

“That, babe,” Steve says, turning them around and pushing Bucky towards the bed, “was a one-time thing. You caught me off-guard. I don’t beg for anybody.”

“You make _them_ wanna beg,” Bucky says, on his back, looking up at Steve.

Steve slips off his underwear and gets on top of Bucky. “Do I make _you_ want to beg?”

Bucky looks him dead in the eyes when he says, “Please, sir.”

Steve leans down and kisses him, long and deep. Bucky forgets to breathe, but it doesn’t matter. He’s died and gone to heaven. He takes his time exploring every unabridged inch of Steve’s skin, touching and clutching and pressing and kissing all of it and any of it he can reach. A tiny part of him wonders if this is what Arthur felt like. He can’t get enough of Steve. He can’t bring himself to have any form of control.

“Baby,” Steve says as Bucky kisses roughly down his throat. Becky forces himself to stop and look at Steve. “I… This is fucking stupid, but I want to try something. I just…might need some guidance?”

Bucky can’t help smirking to himself. This has definitely always been at the top of his bucket list. Like, since he realized the funny feeling in his stomach when Steve is close to him is his pre-teen hormones telling him he has a crush. How fucking lucky can a guy get in one night?

“I’ll go easy on you,” Bucky says. “Where do you want me?”

Steve looks over Bucky’s shoulder at the single bed’s headboard. Bucky tries not to look desperate as he moves back, but, honestly, he’s never ached for something so much in his life. He presses his back to the headboard and gets comfortable. Steve manages to look simultaneously eager as fuck and terrified out of his mind.

“Listen, I’ll start you off by saying that there is no such thing as a bad blowjob. Even the worst ones are good some of the time. Just remember two things and you should be fine: suck with your cheeks and try to keep your teeth as far away as possible,” Bucky says. He pushes the stray bits of hair in his eyes out of his face.

“Are you having the time of your life right now?” Steve asks, his expression replaced with repressed laughter.

“Yes. Let me just have this one. Please, Stevie?”

Steve moves up the bed until his face is level with Bucky’s crotch. He looks up at Bucky with dark eyes. “What was that?”

“Please, sir?” Bucky breathes back.

Steve takes him in slowly, all the way to the base. Bucky’s head rolls back and he moans audibly. He feels Steve smile slightly around him. The next hour, it must be, is Steve taking Bucky’s pointers to heart and, true to form, excelling at his task. He goes above and beyond when he starts swirling his tongue around the length of it, and Bucky has no hope of preventing the swearing and noises coming out of him in equal measure. Steve goes so slow that Bucky is near unconsciousness by the time he’s entirely hard. Steve hollows out his cheeks on the last pull off, but it’s so good that Bucky’s hand automatically finds the back of Steve’s head to keep him there. So, Steve goes down one more time.

Bucky whines. He can’t help it. This is by far the best he’s ever had. No offense to Art, but Bucky doesn’t think a thing in this world exists that Steve Rogers isn’t the absolute best at.

“I take it I was okay?” Steve asks, hesitantly.

Bucky leans forward and kisses him messily, his tongue between Steve’s teeth, tasting himself on Steve’s lips. Steve moves closer, hands on Bucky’s chest, and deepens the kiss. At the rate they’re going now, Bucky could come all over them both just from kissing Steve like this. He decides he likes having sex with Steve too much for it to end so quickly. He ends the kiss. Steve comes out of it looking dazed and confused.

“Why don’t I return the favor?” Bucky asks. “Please, sir?”

“You don’t have to feel obligated…”

Steve isn’t getting it. So, Bucky kicks it into overdrive. He pulls Steve against him, speaking in between hickeys. “It’s all I want. You get me so hot. _Please_ , sir? I’ll be good, I swear.”

Steve moans from low in his throat. They may be more than hickeys. Bucky leaves a trail of bruises down Steve’s neck. He wants to…but he doesn’t know how far he can push this. Not everyone is into that sort of thing. He can’t screw this up.

“ _Bucky_ ,” Steve gasps. “Buck, I want you to. Do it, it’s okay.” He presses Bucky further into his neck.

Bucky decides to hold back just a little, but he bites. Steve’s hips rut up and against Bucky, making his dick throb painfully. He whines into Steve’s neck, accidently clenching his teeth harder than he’d meant to. This rips a shout from Steve, but he thrusts forward again. Bucky pulls off, afraid of actually hurting him. Steve’s eyes are wide. At the base of his neck, where it becomes his shoulder, the mark is scarily visible. Here and there, Bucky had broken skin. He hates himself.

“Why’d you stop?” Steve asks, panting.

“You’re bleeding.”

Steve grinds himself against Bucky’s erection again. Bucky almost bites clean through his tongue.

“Bucky, I like it. I’ll tell you if I want you to stop. It’s okay. It’s _so good_ ,” Steve says and kisses him like earlier. He comes away bloody, from Bucky’s fucked up tongue.

“Can I make a deal with you?” Bucky asks. Steve nods, so he continues: “Let’s just have the damn sex – because I honestly can’t hold out much longer – and if you’re still up for it after, I’ll bite you bloody. I promise.”

“You sure? If you don’t want to…”

“Stevie, I have been scared this whole time that we’d finally get together and I’d be too fucked in the head for you to like me as I am. I’ve been holding back for you. So, you are making my fucking dreams come true here,” Bucky says.

“Answer me this: why did it take me eighteen years to get my shit together?” Steve asks. He doesn’t wait for an answer.

Steve has zero objections to sex. He even gets the lube from Bucky’s bag and tries to slick them both up as fast as possible, so Bucky doesn’t lose it all over Steve’s hand. Bucky literally feels like he can’t breathe, at this point. It hurts like hell, but it’s the best kind of hurt there is. Eventually, though, Bucky just can’t anymore. He doesn’t have it in him. He whines as he begs. He dies watching Steve lube himself up. Bucky might have to take up photography.

Bucky attempts some semblance to sexy when Steve finally pushes into him. Steve looks down at him like he’s the night sky and Steve’s seeing him for the first time. He thrusts into Bucky steadily, hard and just fast enough to drown Bucky in oxygen, but not fast enough to make him finish immediately. Just as Bucky starts feeling like he might pass out, Steve puts a hand to his throat.

“Please? _Ah, fuck_. Please…?” Bucky manages.

So, Steve chokes him. And Bucky is back inside himself. Steve picks up the pace, too, a blissed out look on his face. Bucky grips his sides hard. When they miraculously finish at the same time, he digs his nails into the taught skin of Steve’s hips. Steve moves his hand from Bucky’s throat to the back of his head and brings him up to kiss him one last time before rolling off.

Bucky pulls him close. Steve rests his head on Bucky’s chest, an arm thrown over Bucky and their legs tangled together. He’s hot against Bucky’s side, but Bucky cannot remember ever feeling more content in his life.

“So? How was it?” Bucky asks, quietly, a hand in Steve’s hair.

“I don’t think it’s ever been as good as this for me. I love you, boyfriend,” Steve says, and presses a kiss to Bucky’s chest.

“I love you, too, boyfriend,” Bucky says and kisses the top of Steve’s head.

 

Steve ends up staying the night in that tiny bed with Bucky. He’s pretty sure Bucky wouldn’t have fit on it by himself, so he has no idea how they both manage, but neither of them complain. It’s the best night’s sleep Steve has had since they were both fourteen. Steve remembers it like yesterday: the one and only time he’d let his ass get handed to him, and now André’s dead. The fucking idiot. He hopes that wherever James is, they’re happy. Their eyes and Bucky’s had looked far too similar when they’d last come to visit. He’s never asked Bucky about it. He vows that he will. Bucky doesn’t have to feel alone anymore.

“Morning, beautiful,” Bucky yawns, turning his sleepy self around to face Steve.

“Morning, angel,” Steve says, smiling. It’s funny. Ronni calls him beautiful, but it makes no impression on him. Then, Bucky says it and he feels beautiful. He wonders why that is.

Bucky beams at the nickname. He is, though. He’s Steve’s guardian angel. He always has been. He keeps Steve honest and sane.

“Not to burst this bubble of gloriousness – because this is exactly the kind of wake-up I’ve been dreaming of for fifteen years – but shouldn’t you be getting back to Sharon before she wakes up?”

“Oh, she’s been up for about two hours. She wondered why she’d woken up alone and went in search of her boyfriend – only to find him naked, beaten up and asleep in bed with his brother. So, she’d very, very, _very_ much like an explanation right about now,” comes her voice from the corner of the room.

Both men sit up and find her sitting in the armchair there, reading something on her phone. She looks up and then glares with school principal-like ferocity from Steve to Bucky and back again.

“Bucky’s not my brother?” Steve offers.

“Thank fuck for that,” Bucky says, under his breath.

Steve elbows him in the ribs.

“I thought your family adopted him?”

“That doesn’t make us blood, Sharon,” Bucky says.

“Babe, can I handle this one? You can go shower in the meantime,” Steve murmurs to Bucky.

Bucky shrugs and heads for the bathroom.

“Oh, my goodness! Okay! I guess you’re a very open family,” Sharon says, shielding her eyes from Bucky’s nudity.

“He doesn’t have anything I don’t,” Bucky says, throwing a thumb over his shoulder at Steve. He turns on the water and gets into the shower.

“You have about ten seconds to say something to convince me to hear you out, or I’m leaving, and you can forget about ever seeing the shit you left in my apartment ever again,” Sharon says, her arms crossed in front of her chest.

“You can toss it all, if you want. Burn it. Do whatever you need. I was a bitch to you, Ronni,” Steve says. He brings his one knee up to his chest under the covers and picks at a thread in the comforter.

She sits back, giving him a look that clearly says “I’m listening”.

“If I had to be honest with myself, I’ve been in love with Bucky for as long as I can remember. I just always thought it was a different kind of love. He’s been my best friend forever. We met when we were four years old. He’s looked out for me every day of my life since then. It’s only recently that I’ve been honest enough with myself to acknowledge that friends stop sharing beds at some point and friends don’t hate it when their best friends kiss other boys.

“When I left for college, Bucky and I vowed to each other to do whatever it took to survive the time apart. For him, that was Arthur. For me…”

“It was me,” she finishes. She looks sad now. It breaks Steve’s heart. “Did you ever love me?”

“Ronni, I love you so much. Because of you, I know what friendship feels like. I’m sorry I wasn’t honest with you from the start. I’m an absolute dipshit,” Steve says his piece.

Sharon sighs, staring at the carpet. Bucky must just be hiding in the shower at this point, because he can’t possibly still be washing himself.

“Well, I won’t disagree on the dipshit part. I understand, though. I wish I didn’t, so I can be mad at you in peace, but I do. Has he always felt the same?” she asks, looking up at Steve at the question.

“I think it was much worse for Bucky. I think he’s consciously known forever. I have absolutely no idea how he held out this long. I would’ve been devastated years ago. Ronni, our mutual best friend told him they had a crush on me and he let them date me, because he wanted me happy at all costs – even if one of those costs was him. He got a job at this hotel as a valet – and I’m pretty sure a call-boy – to help pay for my medication, so our family wouldn’t die of starvation and poverty. I don’t think he knows who he is unless he’s loving me. I will never deserve him,” Steve says. He realizes he’s crying.

Sharon gets up to comfort him, but Bucky runs by her in a towel and tackles Steve to the bed. Steve laughs, and so does Sharon. Steve sees Bucky is crying, too. He pulls him close, kissing his long, damp, wavy hair.

“I guess the deal-breaker here is the history,” Sharon says.

“I’m so incredibly sorry, Ronni,” Steve says, finally having his crying in order.

“I’m sorry, too,” Bucky sobs.

“What are you sorry for?” Sharon frowns.

“For subconsciously hating you. I’m a pathetic, jealous bastard,” Bucky cries onto Steve’s chest.

Sharon smiles her button-cute smile and kicks at Bucky’s leg. He looks behind himself at her.

“I was jealous of you, too, when I met you. My first thought was “thank fuck Steve’s not gay, or I wouldn’t have stood a chance”,” she shares.

Bucky chuckles. “Unfortunately, I don’t think Stevie here is gay. I guess it would’ve been worse if he was, growing up. James once said that the only reason you never knew I was into you, is because I never opened my mouth and said anything. You never said you didn’t like guys – I just assumed, because you said you like girls.” Bucky aims this at Steve.

“So, it’s girls _and_ guys for you?” Sharon verifies. “You’re bi?”

“I guess. I don’t know. I mean, I did date James and had no problems. James,” he explains to Sharon, “is our other best friend and they’re gender-fluid. It didn’t bother me. Though, I guess it was a factor for me for a while. Maybe bi is the best description. I’ll take it.”

“Man, I don’t know what else you’d call yourself. You clearly have a thing for girls,” Bucky says. “Is that why you like my long hair?”

Steve and Sharon laugh.

“I actually don’t like it that much, to be honest. Like, I’d prefer it short and slicked back. It’s always in your face this way and so I can never see your pretty eyes,” Steve says.

Bucky blushes. “Shut up. _You_ have pretty eyes.”

Sharon and Steve part on good terms. She says she’ll see him next semester and that he should text her with his flight details, so maybe they can travel together again. Steve says that’d actually be preferable. Bucky agrees. He makes sure he’s well covered in his towel when he gets up to hug her.

“So, that was what Steve was always going on about? I concur, Steve. Absolutely the best hug I’ve ever had,” Sharon says.

“Travel safe, Sharon,” Bucky says.

“Hey, that’s Ronni to you,” she says. “Also, try not to kill him over Christmas. All that is very scary.” She gestures at all the evidence of the previous night. The bite mark in Steve’s neck looks especially painful.

“Steve Rogers doesn’t know how to die. He really tried in his lifetime, but he could just never get it. I see it as indulging his mortality a bit,” Bucky says.

“Whatever, freaks.” With a last wink at Steve, she lets herself out.

“Is it bad?” Steve asks, looking down at himself forlornly.

“I feel as if my opinion might be a bit biased,” Bucky says.

“Lie to me.”

“I think you look absolutely beautiful.”

Steve gets up, out from under the sheets. He walks towards Bucky and all Bucky sees are the sporadic imperfections he put there himself. It makes him weak. It makes this incredible idea of Steve he’s always clung onto that much more human. His crazy best friend with the death-wish. This was always Steve at his happiest – down in the trenches of life, letting the world wear him down so he can come back out stronger.

They kiss. Bucky will never get used to how completely right it feels. Never ever. He never wants to.

“I’ll have to clean it up a bit, though. You might not be feeling those now, but you will if they infect even a little.” Bucky pulls him into the bathroom by the hand, grabbing up his duffle as he goes. At the basin, he pulls out the first aid kit.

“Do you still carry around that old thing?” Steve asks, voice thick with nostalgia.

“It’s saved me quite a few times, actually.” Bucky doesn’t elaborate beyond that. He preps the ointment and gauze and cotton buds and then he sets to getting every tiny scratch as clean as possible. Steve gasps only once and it’s at a spot where Bucky thinks one of his incisors went in kind of deep.

They have a corny breakfast of pancakes and coffee, sitting on the same side of Bucky’s favorite table. Steve wears the Bowie shirt that smells like Bucky and Bucky wears the denim jacket that smells like Steve. They sit too close together and talk in whispers and too-loud snorts of laughter. They hold hands and steal kisses and talk about nothing and everything. To an outsider, the two boys probably appear to be glowing.

When they drive home, Bucky puts on Fall Out Boy and Steve holds his hand and lies on his shoulder. When he spots how blue Bucky’s fingertips are, he gives Bucky his gloves and alternates holding his in front of the heating. When they reach Brooklyn, they go through the McDonald’s drive-thru for an ice-cream to share and Steve feels at home. When they get back to house, Steve and Bucky kiss long in the car before opening the garage and parking it inside.

The moment they get out, their parents hug Steve like he’s just returned from war. He winces over both their shoulders and Bucky chokes on air. Finally, they’re allowed to take Steve’s bags upstairs. The two boys run up, taking them two at a time. Steve barrels right through their bedroom door and it ricochets back and almost hits Bucky square in the face. Steve catches it at the last second, pissing himself laughing at Bucky’s expression.

After they put Steve’s stuff down, Steve takes Bucky by the hand and drags him to the bathroom. There, he makes Bucky sit on the edge of the bath while Steve cuts his hair. Bucky whines and says he doesn’t want it short. Steve tells him to have some faith. Twenty minutes later, he shows Bucky to the mirror, and Bucky looks happy. It isn’t nearly as short as he was fearing. It actually looks really cool and kind of vintage. He tells Steve he loves it. Steve kisses him.

“My pretty boy,” Steve says.

Bucky blushes again and buries his face in Steve’s neck. Steve chuckles, which Bucky can feel, being this close. The sensation relaxes him a great deal.

They go back downstairs, hand in hand, to their parents in the den. Steve spends the next three hours, at least, talking about the campus life. He tells them about everything, except Sharon and Maria. He mentions them, calling them his friends. He calls Sharon “Ronni” and Maria “Hilly”. Mrs. Rogers has a billion questions and counting. Steve holds fast to Bucky’s hand the entire time, until Bucky slings their arms around so his is over Steve’s shoulders.

When they finally give Steve a breather, Mr. Rogers comes to sit in front of them with a stern a look. The two boys glance at each other worriedly.

“Steve, Bucky, am I reading this business right? Are you two an item?” he asks them.

They burst out laughing.

“What did I say?” Joe Rogers looks at his wife helplessly.

“No one says “item” anymore, Joe,” Mrs. Rogers says. “Boys, I think what your father is trying to figure out here is if you two are dating?”

Bucky gives Steve a mischievous look that makes Steve lose his shit all over again.

“Yes, Dad,” Bucky answers. “We are officially an item.”

“Fuck me,” Steve chokes out in between bouts of uncontrollable giggling.

“Language, Stevie. Get your shit together. This is a serious matter,” Bucky says, pumping a fist into Steve’s ribs.

“Well, I’m glad you two are amused. I, however, wasn’t even aware that Steve liked boys. Did this happen in Switzerland?” Mr. Rogers asks, looking thoroughly concerned.

“It is the historic middle ground. That sounds like a sound explanation to me,” Bucky says.

Mrs. Rogers gives Bucky a warning look. He composes himself.

“I’ve always liked boys, Dad. It just never seemed like such a big deal, because I like girls, too. It’s important to note, however, that Bucky isn’t “boys” and I don’t “like” him. Bucky is _everything_ – and I love him as much as it is possible to love another person,” Steve declares boldly, looking at Bucky with such clear adoration that Bucky forgets to breathe again.

It’s quiet as a grave for a full minute.

“Mom?” Bucky says, then, finding his voice. He coughs once in-between. “Dad?”

“As long as you two know there is no way you’re sharing a room now. We’re also never leaving you alone in this house. Those are my terms and they are _not_ debatable,” Mrs. Rogers says, making a finalizing motion with her hand.

“I agree wholeheartedly with your mother,” Mr. Rogers says.

“These are fair,” Steve says.

Bucky nods.

When their parents get up and head to the kitchen, they turn to each other and smile before they kiss.

 

The next six months seem to melt away. Bucky pays special attention to his academics and joins the debate team. Arthur comes to all his debates and tapes every single one. Ronni has Maria – studying to be a future justice of the peace – critique them for Bucky. Steve and Bucky continue to send each other art and music. Bucky writes more songs and Steve turns Bucky into an angel in every drawing. When Bucky is finally accepted into the same school as Steve – which Steve is not in the least surprised by – Steve moves out of the dorms and he and Bucky get a nice apartment on campus. Mr. Rogers is vehemently against the idea at first, but Steve counters that he’ll cover the costs. He’s had so many modeling gigs over the last six months that he could afford to pay for Bucky’s studies. This is made irrelevant when Bucky is offered the president’s scholarship for his debating at the junior UN summit. At the start of the new year, both men try out for the varsity lacrosse team. Both of them are obvious choices, and take turns making the banana-protein smoothies before every game and practice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next and final installment in this fic series is a Scarlet Widow (WandaxNatasha) fic called Yours, Mine and Ours. For it, you will definitely need the two-part FrostIron story as background, as it is set parallel to that. 
> 
> See you soon!
> 
> xx

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry this took so long to start. Stucky isn't my ship. It should flow more easily now, though.


End file.
